Alchemy Rising
by radioraheem
Summary: Mankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To love, one must first give love. Our work, pain, and loss...all laid the foundation of alchemy, which would reshape our world. In those days, we thought nothing would ever change.
1. Alchemy's Seeds

_**Spoiler warning: this fanfic has spoilers for the Full Metal Alchemist anime, especially the later half of the series. Reader beware.**_

* * *

_Prologue_

The sun set on the vast rustic plain as the creature lay dying, alone. Winds licked at the tall blades of grass, rustling the fallen creature's fur. Choking on its lifeblood, it whined feebly, the noise lost in the relentless wind. From the underbrush, sparkling keen eyes of glimmering gold took in the wounded animal. Pupils narrowed, instinct focused, the predator stalked towards its prey, long limbs of sinewy muscle carrying it forward. Without a sound, the lion took its prey, lashing out tearing jaws strong enough to render a jugular in a single snap.

Scavengers came later, the announcement of the kill broadcast as far as the wind could carry the wafting scent of fresh meat. Packs of wild canines battled over the stringy scraps, sometimes amongst their own family. The lion and its family had passed long ago, gorged on the sweet meats of the antelope, sated until their next meal. The vultures would come last, eating the rotten parts not even the hyenas would dare touch.

Time would pass. Days, months, years. That lion would soon pass too, leaving a pile of meat and bones, no different than that antelope's carcass. Its body would wither, decaying into dust, in turn nurturing the earth. Roots would sprout from the soil, blossoming into grass and trees, feeding the descendents of other antelopes, perhaps even descendents of that first. And other lions, perhaps descendents of that one lion, would hunt them before inevitably returning to the ground themselves.

It was as old as time, this cycle of life. And it would be the most important lesson in alchemy.

* * *

**Alchemy's Seeds**

Anything referred to as "science" in those days was outlawed. Not so much by the government (as there was no central government), and not so much by the church (since there was no universal faith), but by the common will of the people. Any person found practicing or studying the sciences was to be arrested and tried, usually resulting in an execution, most commonly by immolation. Sibling would turn against sibling, wife against husband, child against parent. It was a hard time for progress; the land stuck in this morass of moral subjugation and policed ignorance.

Magic, on the other hand, was openly practiced, for it was interpreted as "God's Will". Oddly enough, critics of so-called "science" preached the tenets of magic freely, proclaiming it the nature of heaven on earth. With that said, it was rare that one would witness a true miracle of magic. Some charlatans used well-disguised sciences to wow crowds without fear of being called heretic, but there was always the risk of someone seeing something familiar and shouting accusations from the safety of the crowd. Those displays would end without arrest and trial, instead with a hanging or stoning.

Little did the people know, there were those in the higher echelon within the theological society that secretly financed the sciences, most notably medicine. When confronted with the sickly countenance of a loved one, it is no surprise that even those of the strongest faith found it shaken and seek whatever means necessary to ease that affliction.

In the course of human history, one case in particular stands out as the catalyst for that society's change. A beloved member of the Central Church's hierarchy, Father Hawthorne, a figure long admired by even those of the rival churches, confessed to nearly dying as a child from a grave disease. His stunned audience gasped, proclaiming his survival as one of "God's miracles". Letting the fervor in his cramped delegation build to a crescendo, he shook his head, the slight motion quieting the flock instantly.

"Perhaps it was God's will," he proclaimed. "But it was medical science that saved this physical body, and my father's courage to pursue that realm of knowledge."

Five hundred faces gaped at his words. Words that would have spurned intense violence had they been uttered by any other man were now met with actual consideration. Some nodded their heads quietly, having long suspected that progress was necessary, and that science was essential for progress. None raised arms in violence. Voices were quelled, madness long abated.

After Father Hawthorne had wrapped up his sermon preaching tolerance and progress, his delegation filed from their pews quietly, eyes distant, minds wrapping themselves around the ideas presented. Some took his words to heart, sharing his gospel in hushed whispers within their inner circles. A few others weren't so prone to new things, however, and gathered later that night under a jackal moon with only intolerance in their hearts.

Armed with pitchforks and torches, the fanatical mob marched upon Father Hawthorne's home, locked up tightly for the night. Denied at every corner, one normally quiet member of the delegation, an elderly schoolteacher, lost it completely. Foaming at the mouth with repressed rage, he pressed his torch to the nearest shutter, setting it ablaze. Like a dam bursting, what little sanity that remained in the mob escaped in a rush. Other torches were tossed at the doors, sealing Father Hawthorne and his family within the deadly flames. He was given no chance to recant his words, his wife and young children no choice at all. They perished for his beliefs, his sermon.

All but one, that is; a young son that miraculously survived the choking smoke and the collapse of a burning roof. A boy his mother had lovingly named Hohenheim, found buried in the ashes of the family's destroyed home. In her dialect, Hohenheim translated to "blessed by God's grace". It was no wonder then, that anyone who saw the burnt out wreckage knew it was nothing short of God's will to save that poor little boy.

Some good came from the tragedy, people would later whisper with a tear still in their eye. The Central Church, showered with charitable sympathy and newfound gospel, had finally found their martyr and cause. The young people of the land, still impressionable, took to the new ideals of this budding church. Flocks grew. Soon they were all as large as Father Hawthorne's delegation, and gaining momentum. Rival churches began to lose their followers, their religion frowned upon by the majority. The Central Church followed suit, taking in all the nearby churches, reshaping the religion into their own image. Within two years, there was only one religion in the region. Either you belonged to the Central Church, or you belonged to no church.

In the immediate days that followed the tragedy, however, things weren't so simple. Violence begat violence, and the military, long practitioners of the sciences, was called in to quell the riots. Parishioners who had once shared the same pew now bludgeoned one another openly, choking the life from one another for differing faiths. Military intervention was efficient and brutal; anyone strong enough to fight was imprisoned. Character witnesses were provided by the church, releasing some of the prisoners. Fairness was never brought into question, offenders never formally charged with a crime.

They were soon forgotten, soon lost within the constantly expanding system. The only question left was, what to do with the boy? Badly burned across the majority of his body, the church thought he was the perfect martyr to continue in his father's footsteps. However, an officer in the military grew fond of the boy's intellectual curiosity, and offered the military's aid in providing for the boy's care.

This battle wasn't quite as obvious as the last, nor one the military was used to fighting. The church was eager to keep their hands on the child Hohenheim, who had grown into a symbol for the future with his stubborn will to live. But for every sermon and performance the church's leaders made, the military had no qualms going against the will of the people. They had no need for subversive literature, not so long as they had a ready supply of muskets and cannons.

And so the boy's next home was a military hospital. Protests died soon enough, the only memory to remain the bitterness in certain church leaders' hearts. Thankfully, the next stage of the boy's youth would be quiet enough for him to gather his thoughts, and rehabilitate his injuries.

Military doctors promised him a full recovery with the leaping strides the medical field was making every day. As his skin healed, it stiffened, and the doctors tried a revolutionary technique, grafting skin from other parts of his body to lessen his scarring. It was a painful procedure, but the boy endured, learning and studying science on his own.

It was, after all, the last thing his father told him to do.

--

However, the rest of the world wasn't so quick to change. Like any progress, it was sluggish at first. Although science had been accepted as another means, it was still frowned upon by those of the old world. That mysterious art still needed validation for those skeptics, and nothing short of a miracle could do that.

--

The once-quiet medical wing of the hospital grew to full capacity as the military waged another front to the east, filling with the unseen casualties of war: civilians. The boy didn't feel quite so alone, and he no longer felt the stares from nurses and doctors. No one knew him as the son of Father Hawthorne, or as the burned boy of tragedy…only as another patient. And he loved it every moment of it, as much as a boy in his condition could love, that is.

On a hot summer day, when the groans of the wing were as much from humidity as injury, a small family was brought in after a mortar shelling. Composed of only two parents and a child, they were unlike anyone Hohenheim had seen in his young life; dark skinned with bright eyes, and long, lustrous black hair.

"Damned nomads," spat the man at the next bed over, the perpetually grumpy victim of a bayonet through his belly. "Don't they have their own hospitals," he asked gruffly, checking his possessions to make certain they were secure.

"This hospital was set up for all injured," said Hohenheim quietly. Though he enjoyed the full medical wing, he did not especially care for his neighbor, who only grunted in response. The man cast Hohenheim a skeptical look before rolling over to sleep, but the boy only had eyes for the young girl, one side of her face heavily bandaged.

She was probably a couple years older than him, but something in her one visible eye told him that she had seen a lifetime more of the world than he. Staring blankly through the facility, she seemed a hundred miles away. He pictured her amongst a desert plain, scaling a mesa, shielding her soft eyes from the piercing sun to gaze at the expanse behind her. Moving with the fluidity and grace of a native, he knew she came from afar when she scampered up that climb with ridiculous ease. In his mind's eye, she smiled at her feat, standing silently atop the world below her.

That perfect image of her was damaged in that first night, as he heard her crying in her sleep. She wept in a tongue he had never heard before, and it sounded like someone's name. Most of the patients had learned to sleep through others' nightmares, but Hohenheim, despite having the longest tenure in the hospital, never could.

He turned towards her, the stiff, healing skin on his neck making him cringe in pain. The pain was dulled, however, as used to it as he was. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting of the hall, and he saw the girl shaking in bed, a parent on either side of her, clutching her tightly against her wracking sobs. A part of his heart longed for that comfort, for too long missing the loving touch of his parents. But as her tears faded into the night, so too did his sleepy memories.

--

The girl was an obscenely fast learner. Within two weeks of her arrival, she was already speaking the language of the other patients, though saying very little at times. During these episodes she would seem to stare blankly through the window, and nothing could disturb her from that reverie.

Most of the other patients wanted nothing to do with the nomadic family, too busy wallowing in their own misery to care about anyone else. The young nurses were the only ones to actively care about the family's place in the hospital, encouraging the young girl with her language lessons and caring for her parents' injuries. Watching from afar, Hohenheim also tried to learn the language of the nomadic family, studying the interaction between the parents. He was nowhere near the girl's language ability, however, no more evident than the eventful day that she wandered to his side of the wing.

"Hello," she had said, staring curiously at him, her bandage long removed. Only a thin scar remained over her eye, barely noticeable. Doctors had predicted a full physical recovery for her, and as doctors, had little concern for anything else.

"Hi," he had mumbled, caught off balance by her sudden proximity. While he had studied her from afar, practicing possible conversations, he had no idea what to say.

"Why are you here," she asked boldly, any sign of her earlier meekness all but gone.

"I was in a fire," replied Hohenheim, nervous under her unrelenting gaze. "About a year or so ago."

"Burn?" She was obviously having a bit of trouble with the language. He only nodded. "Your family?"

"Gone," he replied wistfully.

"Where," she asked innocently. He realized his choice of words wasn't the best. He pointed upwards and her face sank. "Forgive me," she said solemnly.

"It is okay," assured Hohenheim. He probably would have shrugged, had his upper body not been so stiff from his last treatment.

"I lose brother," she whispered, and he wondered if her confession was a result of her guilt.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, gaining the courage from their tragic connection to finally look her in the eye. "I am Hohenheim," he added. "What is your name?"

Her eyes sparkled at his name, and her mouth opened into a wide grin. "I am no gift of God like you," she laughed, playfully running away.

"Wait," he called, reaching out to her anxiously, still a prisoner of his damaged body. "Tell me your name!"

The girl, skipping towards the center of the large hall, stopped suddenly to look back at him curiously.

"Dante," she replied proudly. "I am Dante," she laughed lightly before crossing back to her side of the wing where her parents waited.

"Dante," he whispered to himself, as if he would forget it less he speak it, repeating it again and again.

--

With more than its fair share of patients and problems, the hospital was hardly what one would call a quiet place. But after a long enough period of time, one could almost grow accustomed to the constant noise and find a semblance of peace and quiet.

In those days, however, the peace was never meant to last. From just beyond the horizon, the sounds of battle could be heard, the rumble of cannons and distant explosions. Like clockwork they would begin at sunrise, the eastern armies pushing back the western military.

The doctors and nurses moved in a haze, as if they knew it would never end well. Important patients were moved out, and anyone well enough to walk was advised to also leave. Roll call showed over three quarters of the patients had checked out, moving as far away from the battlefront as they could. News from the frontlines had been grim; half of the western military had been killed, the remaining half pushed back by the insurgents.

Most of the patients left were old, crippled, or a lost cause. Hohenheim's grumpy neighbor was still there, of course, with plenty of curses and slurs to sling against Dante and her eastern people. An oppressive anxiety plagued Hohenheim, and he doubted it was from his spiteful neighbor. He could see with his own eyes that Dante's father was getting better, despite his constant begging for his wife to take their daughter and flee. Still she stood by his side, weeks later with the battle being waged only a dozen miles away. Hohenheim knew that once he was better, Dante would be gone from his life for good.

The night before, she had mentioned in passing that once her father was better, the family would travel back east, trying to circle around the battlefield. Her mother wanted to help out where she could, having served as a doctor for a time, which surprised Hohenheim.

"Your people study science openly," he asked, amazed.

"Something like that," she yawned. "Mama wants to teach me the arts as well, but I find it boring."

"I wish I had someone to teach me things like that," he said, waving his hands at the stacks of books by his bedside. "I have to teach myself."

"You are your own best teacher," she said dreamily. "My brother taught himself to eat sand."

"What is the use of that," he asked skeptically.

"There is always enough sand to eat," she teased. "My people must learn to survive on what there is enough of, not what we like," she added with a serious tone.

Public opinion of the eastern people was at an all-time low, and her mother feared persecution at the hands of the pale skinned westerners, preferring to face the shrapnel and desperation of a war zone over the narrow-mindedness of a people unwilling to accept change.

"It won't be like that," pleaded Hohenheim, sensing for the first time that he would actually lose his friend.

"Not everyone is kind hearted like you," she said sadly, and he felt a lifetime's persecution behind her words, a lifetime of wary sideways glances and hushed epithets. Deep in his heart he knew she was right; the times might change but the people never would.

The trouble in his mind was eased a bit the next morning by the arrival of his old friend, Lieutenant Thaddeus Armstrong, the muscular, clean shaven soldier of great vitality and voice that had fought for his custody.

"Hohenheim, dear boy," he said boisterously, taking the wing by storm with his booming voice. "You look well!"

"As do you, Lieutenant," said Hohenheim politely, trying to deny the heaviness of his heart.

"I told you not to call me that," roared Armstrong. "Besides," he said confidingly. "I was recently promoted to Major."

"Congratulations, sir."

"Haha, so disciplined," guffawed the Major. "You will make a fine soldier someday!"

"If I ever get out of this bed," said the boy tiredly.

"Nonsense, my boy," argued the Major. "You shall be up and out of here by tomorrow morning!"

"What do you mean?"

"I apologize for my tardiness and being remiss as your guardian; because of supply line issues I had not been able to arrive sooner. But now that I am here, I have been able to charter a medical carriage to move you further west, away from harm."

"But I—"

"As well as others here, of course. The Armstrong family is not so selfish as to leave any injured behind!"

Hohenheim's eyes met Dante's from across the wing; both shared the same look. Though they appeared to be children, they had suffered dearly at the hands of the world, a world that forced them to grow up faster than they should have. It was all up to fate now.

--

The night brought silence with its arrival, casting gloom and shadows upon the hospital. Empty beds somehow appeared emptier in the glow of moonlight, despite what the elderly superstitious babbled on about.

In the quiet darkness of the large hall, any sound was magnified a hundredfold. The rustling of a sheet, the cough of the infirmed; all were as loud as a drunken Major Armstrong at a holiday party.

Moving through the dimness, a woman glided towards a sleeping Hohenheim. Clear eyes betrayed no motive, no intention for anything evil, nor good. She flicked dark hairs from her face, studying the dozing boy. Though he physically embodied all that she feared, she had sensed a benevolent presence within the boy. And it wasn't as if he could do any harm to her daughter, not in his condition.

She ran her open palms over the boy's broken body, mere inches from his skin, but feeling his pain all the same. It was worse than she had thought. For him to smile so bravely…perhaps she had been wrong to doubt the boy so quickly.

"Please mother," Dante had begged her in their native language. "Why can we not help him?"

"It is not our place to choose who we help," said her mother calmly. "It must be the will of God."

"Oh mother, again with that nonsense?"

"That 'nonsense' has protected our people for over a hundred centuries," her mother said sternly. "Learn to respect your roots, Dante."

"What is the good of your talents if you can never use them," asked the girl bitterly, her eyes welling up with tears. Embarrassed, she turned away, though her mother had seen the girl cry every other time in her young life.

"We struggle, Dante, because we are human," her mother said, touching the girl's shoulder. "There are no easy paths in life. That boy must learn it, just as we have."

"If it were my brother, laying in that bed with his body destroyed, would you say the same," Dante asked accusingly, turning towards her mother. "If his skin were dark like ours, would it change things then?"

"They are our enemies, daughter," her mother argued. "You have not lived long enough in this world to understand what that means."

"They have sheltered us with this hospital! They have tended to our injuries, filled our stomachs with food, and you still you cannot bear to help them?"

"Our gifts were meant for _our _people, Dante. Their healers—"

"Those brave enough to call themselves healers do not pick and choose who they help, mother. God's will is not for that boy to suffer."

"We are not meant to question God's plan; for all we know, He might be testing that boy."

"And what if He is testing _you_, mother? What will you say in the afterlife when our God asks of the good you performed in this world? What will you tell Him then?"

The girl succeeded with as much tenacity as she did spunk. Dante would become an adept; of that much her mother was certain. She was smart, and passionate. Her words had found their way past her mother's defenses, through her staunch ideals, and into that hidden part of the soul that is still good in all human beings.

And so now she loomed over her daughter's sleeping friend, feeling the pain and agony of the boy's injuries, sensing the sadness of his terrible loss. She idly wondered if perhaps Dante had sensed the sadness too, and that was what had brought the boy to her attention. Both had suffered terrible losses to their families, after all. The woman knew she was doing the right thing now; if not for the boy, at least for her daughter. This would ease the pain of their imminent separation.

The first rays of the sun were barely touching the low clouds in the sky when she began. In cultures all around the world, the healing ritual started with a laying of open hands on the wound. However, few cultures in the world could explain what happened next. A soft hum could be heard, but only in that small space between the healer's hands and her patient's wounds. Energy began to sizzle, and the temperature in the massive room rose significantly. A diffuse glow of bright energy formed around the healer's fingertips, and without hesitation, she thrust her fingers into the boy's flesh. Not so much as stirring, he continued his peaceful slumber as she kneaded her fingers, massaging the skin in circles. As if by magic, the scarred flesh began to melt away, both wounded and healthy skin becoming one as she blended the two seamlessly together in a foamy whirlpool.

She stopped, trying to catch her breath as the energy settled. This had happened to her on occasion, a pain she dared not tell Dante about. The girl was skittish enough when it came to faith healing. With her low tolerance for physical pain, she would quit after her first healing session.

But this was different. The discomfort she was feeling now was like nothing she had known in all her previous work. Needles darted up and down her skin, her bones sorely aching as her muscles turned to slush. Collapsing to the floor, blood began to dribble from her ears, and she could taste warmth in her mouth, just before she vomited more blood. She gasped for air to fill her lungs, but she could feel her chest filling with more liquid, beginning to choke on it.

She realized then that she had taken on too much of the boy's severe injuries. It was a phenomenon another caravan's healer had once told her about; pain will not simply vanish. It must be endured, if not by one person, then another. That healer had always kept a small animal nearby for those occurrences when the pain became too great for her to bear on her own.

Of course…the transfer had nearly overcome her, just like that gypsy had warned. Her mind raced, looking for an outlet, something that could be sacrificed. A thousand voices screamed in her mind at once, all begging for that terrible ringing in her head to stop. And somehow, through that terrible sound, she heard it: her way out.

The old man snored loudly, the type of snore that showed he didn't give a damn whether or not anyone else could fall asleep. The old man in the bed beside Hohenheim, the man who cursed her family under his breath, the man who swore at her innocent daughter. Yes, he would make an excellent outlet, she thought, forcing herself to her feet.

Standing on wobbly legs, she got to work. Compelled by some strange force, she ran a bloodied finger along the man's arm, drawing a circular design. When she was finished, she began to chant in a tongue long forgotten.

--

Flinty eyes in deep gloom took in the sleeping form. Broken shafts of starlight filtered across clean white hospital linens. The nervous ticking of a bedside clock as the shadow approached. A messenger from the darkness, pallid with anticipation.

I shall miss you, she said quietly, so quietly that she only mouthed the words. I shall miss you and I do not understand why, like waking during a soon-forgotten dream. I hope our paths will bring us together again, and pray that time finds you well.

And after she turned to leave, to meet her waiting parents, she tiptoed back to his bedside, placing one tender kiss on him.

Farewell, Hohenheim, she said, her smile distant and sad.

* * *

_Notes: Ok, this is a resubmission of the first chapter; there were a lot of typos and mistakes that I just had to clean up, and I tightened up a few paragraphs here and there. Anyways, hope you enjoy this story enough to continue reading on, I got a lot of special things planned._


	2. The Birth of Alchemy

_Note: I'm an idiot; didn't realize until now that I spelled Hoenheim wrong for that entire section. Spell check isn't always your best friend, I guess._

_

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Birth of Alchemy**_

Any joy he had from his miraculous recovery was abated by Dante's sudden departure. She and her family had disappeared the night before with neither warning nor explanation. No one in the medical staff seemed to pay them much heed, instead amazed by the boy's overnight recovery. While they had been baffled, they of course had no qualms against taking credit for a successful procedure. They barely had time, however, to discuss their plan for making Hoenheim the poster boy for their treatment when the first artillery shell struck the hospital's eastern wing.

Evacuation broke into panic, some perpetually bed-ridden patients finding it in themselves to get up and move. Others weren't so blessed.

"Major Armstrong, we have to go back for Mister Carney," said Hoenheim, carried away in the Major's capable arms but still worried about his cranky neighbor.

The Major shook his head grimly. "Your bedmate is gone, my boy."

"Gone? But he was fine yesterday…"

"He was an old man, son, gone to meet his maker last night."

"I just don't understand, though. He was—"

"In you go," ordered Armstrong, tossing the boy into the caravan door, where the rest of the other patients waited nervously.

"We should go now," cried one of the patients. "No one else is back there!"

"An Armstrong never leaves the wounded behind," he said proudly. But as he turned to head back to the hospital, a volley of cannonballs ripped through the main hall, exploding in a ball of blinding fire.

"No one could have survived that," screamed another patient. "Just lock up and get us out of here!"

"Nurse," asked the Major, turning pleadingly to the last one left, who sat by the door.

"No one up there could have survived that barrage," she replied. "You've done all you could," she added gently, taking his hand. "The others need you now."

He nodded solemnly. As a soldier, he had learned to accept the awful hardships of wartime, particularly for leadership. Decisions on the battlefield had to be made instantly, even though lives might hang in the balance. The lives of the many living outweighed those of the possible few. And so he signaled to the wagon driver with a heavy heart, closing the door behind him.

Through the bustle of the jostling wagon and the relieved sighs of the other patients, Hoenheim looked back at his second home, the second of which he had to watch burn. His thoughts weren't dwelling on painful memories, however, or the easy company of a young nomadic girl. He thought of the old man that had slept beside him for the past seven months, a man who had, up until yesterday, been alive.

--

The nurse wasn't much help when it came to his questions. Sure, she was helpful when it came to tending the old and infirmed in the wagon, but any specific inquiries he made towards his old bedmate were met with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, "but it's impossible to keep track of every patient in an entire wing, honey."

"But Mister Carney was nearly better," insisted Hoenheim. "He was well past the worst of his condition…"

"Oh, I think I remember who you're talking about," said the girl, rubbing her forehead in thought. "Kind of a cranky fellow…snored like a bear?"

"Yes, that's him," exclaimed the boy. "What happened to make him pass so suddenly?"

"A lot of the older patients had been passing lately," replied the nurse in a hushed voice. "It's the hopelessness of the war…it just drains some people."

"But not him…he had so much he wanted to do…so many people he wanted to yell at…"

"I think your friend passed from internal bleeding," recalled the nurse, but she didn't seem quite so certain. "Which was strange, because his internal stitches had already healed."

"Internal injuries?"

"Yes, and he had some unusual cuts on his arm…and the strangest thing…"

"What's that?"

"A circle…he had drawn a circle on his arm in blood."

"_Blood_? Was it his?"

"We couldn't be sure," shrugged the girl. "Between the attack and your miraculous recovery, the majority of our time was spent on the living."

"Time well spent, I say," grumbled one of the older patients. "How about letting those of us in the living get some rest?"

"Sorry," said Hoenheim, turning back to his seat. His thoughts were already far behind them, buried in the ashes of a hospital's ruins.

--

In those days, travel by caravan was the fastest mode of transport, but still slow and arduous when moving from the east. While the main western region was lush with greenery and wildlife, the eastern expanse was often described as "a big pile of sand". Dry, barren, and scorching hot, it was a strange wonder that the western nations even bothered expanding in that direction.

Anti-expansionists had often asked the same thing. The Ishbalans had never sought to extend their borders to the west (or any other direction for that matter), yet they were viewed as greedy land hoarders. Frequently displaced by other growing nations, few Ishbalans had any place they could truly call their homeland.

Major Armstrong had been surprisingly silent since the departure a day previous; no one felt the need to complain about the relaxing quiet, but Hoenheim was beginning to worry about his guardian. A man such as he relied as much on his fire and passion as other men relied on breathing and eating.

The boy had taken to riding atop the wagon during the daylight hours, his first taste of sunlight on his skin in several months. Wind whipping through his light hair, the boy was nearly overcome with the newfound beauty he saw in the world, a beauty appreciated by only the young and healthy. The world unfolded before him with limitless possibilities, and for the first time in a long time, he was excited by the prospects.

While he had tried his hardest to climb out of the depths of depression, he was still just a young boy who had lost his entire family a year before, a boy with an absent guardian, a suddenly healthy boy with only the sick and dying to keep him company. His first few months had been full of self-pity and loathing, but since then, he had gained a sort of pride in his outlook, a newfound optimism. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Dante had anything to do with it.

The sun set that night on the sandy ocean, the hazy horizon misty red with a smear of bright hued oranges and yellows trickling along. Tending to the horses, Hoenheim helped the Major set up camp with the others, preparing for the icy desert night. He had struggled with any type of physical exertion at first, but he kept his lips tight and tried his best to bear it; he had complained enough from his bedside to last a few years.

Their travels, for all the excitement they gave the boy, continued to be uneventful. It was only after another full day of monotonous travel did the entire group share enjoyment as a whole. Reaching the peak of a sandy hill, the travelers were confronted with a cityscape that ran the entire length of the horizon. Where there was only sand before, now grew prairies of verdant green grass, short fat trees bursting with leaves, and shimmering ponds of iced blue.

"Civilization, at last," sighed the nurse. She had been taxed far harder than the others, tending to the infirmed while trying her best to buoy everyone's spirits. If anyone deserved a rest, it was surely her.

"That is to be our new home, my boy," said the Major, his first words in over a day. Even he seemed to be in higher spirits, unperturbed by the hot sun on his shoulders, the uncomfortable jostle of the carriage.

"What is it called," asked the boy curiously.

"Amestris," he replied as they drew closer to the city.

--

Years passed, each one shorter than the last. The boy was anxious to grow up and become a man, eager to make his mark upon the world. Displaying a remarkable aptitude for the sciences, he finished his schooling years ahead of his peers. While they struggled with fractions, he was beginning an intensive foray into chemistry. When they played with finger paints, he was already studying the classics.

Growing up, he had always feared that it would be his body that would label him an outcast, the grotesque scarring instantly labeling him to the superficial human eye. Instead it was his mind that alienated him, much to his chagrin. He hadn't made a habit of constantly correcting those around him, or stroking his ego with his superior intellect, but he was still shunned by those he wanted most to call friend.

It was a different type of pain than he was accustomed to, one that left scars just as deep as any burn. He endured the teasing and the loneliness, thrusting himself fully into the academics and sciences. His guardian, the brash Major Armstrong, had retired from the military after the war, instead building a fortune exporting dry goods. The man spared the boy no luxury, encouraging his exponential educational progress with the solemn pride usually found in good parents.

"The boy is bright," said his business partner, a man named Shelby who had helped set up the outlets for Armstrong's goods. "Exceptionally so…"

"Indeed," agreed Armstrong, drinking heartily from his flagon. "But he would resent being called a 'boy', much like we would at that age."

"So hungry for adulthood, eh," laughed Shelby. "Our youth will never learn to enjoy their early days," he said, wistfully tracing a finger on the edge of his glass.

Armstrong's brow arched at Shelby's words, the man a lifelong bachelor with neither offspring nor wife to his name. Still, the man brought an exceptional wine in his weekly visits, and was thus always welcome on the estate.

"His youth wasn't what one would call 'pleasant'," replied Armstrong, emptying his glass with a gulp. "He is anxious to meet the future; he can do great good in this world."

"It wasn't so long ago that the sciences were forbidden," said his partner. "And it is still frowned upon by the community, even those in higher education…are you certain he can learn what he desires in the…ah, military academy?"

"What other outlet is better," asked Armstrong, annoyed by his partner's insinuation. Armstrong had attended the military academy, just as his father and his father's father had. It was family tradition, and the perfect place for his adopted son to apply his knowledge practically.

"There is a university opening in the central city," answered his friend. "The first of its kind; a center for the highest of learning, with only the best and brightest students from all around the country attending classes taught by elite educators."

"University," scoffed Armstrong. "There is a new one. Whatever you call a school, it is still the same thing," he added, pouring another large glass of wine for himself.

"The pursuit of knowledge is never the same between two people," replied his partner, swirling the half-empty glass in his thin hands. "Just look at the church and the central state; both pursue the same goals, but they take vastly different paths—"

"Don't bring politics into this," interrupted Armstrong loudly. "The boy will make an excellent soldier, and his contributions to the military will be felt much sooner than any he could make elsewhere."

"Or, his impact could be greater felt in the academic community…"

"Why are you slinging this, Shelby? What do you care where _my_ boy attends school?"

"You can be so cruel at times, Thaddeus," said his partner dramatically. "I've watched _your_ boy grow over these years, and come to consider you and he _our_ family…I only want what is best for him."

"And I don't?"

"Of course you do," soothed Shelby, taking a dainty sip from his glass. "But sometimes you can be a little…ah, narrow in your…focus."

"Are you calling me narrow-minded," boomed Armstrong, the wine glass in his hand suddenly shattering in his tightening grip. Shelby for some reason pictured that grip around his narrow neck in a few moments.

"No, no, of course not," said his friend carefully. "Just…loyal. To a possibly overt degree."

"Loyal…yes, I like that, Shelby," said Armstrong, stroking his chin. "The Armstrong line has been long acknowledged for our loyalty, after all…"

"As much as you want him to be, Hoenheim is not of your family line, Armstrong," said his friend gently. "He doesn't have to follow in your footsteps to continue tradition. Let him forge his own destiny. You cannot shelter him forever."

Armstrong regarded his friend suspiciously, something in his words familiar.

"And I suppose you have already talked to Hoenheim about this?"

"Ah…actually, yes," confessed his partner. "The university truly has what he wants, Thaddeus. You should listen to what it has to offer."

"A university…who'd have thought it," said Armstrong resignedly, polishing off the last of the wine with a flourish. "Very well, then. Let us find some whiskey to celebrate properly," he slurred, stumbling off to find his liquor cabinet.

--

_**University Days**_

The mule had labored for the last ten miles, its ragged breathing and shorter steps beginning to concern her. When she had insisted on breaks, the stubborn mule seemed to suddenly find pride to its demeanor, when there had only been a simple brain before. Pushing itself harder, challenged by her insulting sympathy, the animal carried her into the city limits well ahead of her timetable.

It almost seemed to grin at her, so pleased by its performance, that she couldn't resist treating the animal to some fine oats that were slightly beyond her meager budget. She playfully scratched behind its neck, whispering words of thanks into its ear.

The people of the city surprised her. There were no stares, no whispered insults, no suspicious glances. Perhaps this place was as socially advanced as the recruiter had told her. The only time she had been able to walk so freely was amongst her own people. Strolling down a city walk, she inhaled the city air deeply. While not as clear as the air of her homeland, it was still a sweet relief beyond her young mind to fully understand.

Broken into several parts, the city was composed of short, squat buildings spread as far as her eye could see. The roads were paved; no choking dust clouds here. People milled about freely, their casual laughs carrying with the mild western wind.

But as she continued her brief voyage into the heart of the city, she began to notice differences. Roads, perfectly paved only five blocks earlier, quickly fell into disrepair. Broken blocks jutted upward and outwards, jabbing in every direction save the right one. Walls decayed, covered in year old posters, selling lusty female images and sin. Windows that were once covered with picture perfect shutters now had stained and sun bleached sheets hanging over the openings. Dirty laundry hung from rusty wires running along the rooftops, obscuring most of the sun's rays.

She watched as half-clothed children ran through the streets, kicking a ragged, flat ball to and fro. Squealing with innocent laughter, she smiled and quietly shared in their joy. On the other side of the street, those too poor to own shops hocked their wares from under torn awnings. She smiled; they, like her, would never let their surroundings get the best of them.

Five hundred miles distance and several day's travel from the only place she had ever called home, Dante knew she had at last found the heart of her people.

--

From the poverty and squalor of the last section, the university appeared almost regal in its self-indulgent decadence. Anything metallic was hand polished to a mirror sheen, even the brass (or was it gold?) handrails that ran the length of the main walkway which opened into a massive central square, easily the size of a fully settled township. The campus greens rolled and dipped with the picturesque landscaping, every hedge perfectly trimmed, every leaf raked neatly away.

And the buildings…! All at least five stories high, they were the tallest in the city, well above than anything she had ever seen. Despite being nestled in the upper class district, the school's brand new buildings stood out like a diamond amongst coal, much to the dismay of the wealthy elite. White as candescent tusks of ivory, the buildings were gilded with silver trim: an impressive sight from anywhere in the city, and beyond.

Though she had arrived a few days early, the campus was scattered full of other students, all equally enthralled by the lavish facilities. Guiding her mule onto the main greens, she was given more than her fair share of stares, nervous giggles hidden behind dainty hands and arched brows. The other students were well dressed, some even in formal attire, while she was still dusty from the dirt roads. She paid no heed to standing out; she was used to it, even amongst her own people.

As Dante continued her proud march before staring eyes, she heard a man call out to her.

"Excuse me, miss!"

She turned to face him, a ruddy-faced and middle-aged man, panting from the exertion. Portly and immaculately attired, he carried an air of authority about him that went beyond his finely tailored clothing.

"Yes?"

"You cannot bring that—that _animal_ in here," he said, still out of breath but trying to compose himself. "Our campus is welcome to you curious onlookers, but common courtesy demands—"

"I am a student here," she said, staring him hard in the face. "I saw no tethering posts for animals outside, and thought—"

"Oh goodness," exclaimed the man, watching as Dante's donkey chewed on the manicured grass. "Your animal _simply_ cannot do that," he insisted.

"He apologizes," she said mockingly, pulling the donkey away firmly but gently. "Where else can I stow him?"

"There is a back road behind the living hall…some of the help will be able to find a place for your…companion," he said snobbishly, the odor of the mule finally getting to him and driving him away.

"Very well," she said, turning to guide the animal away. Though flustered, it took all of her control not to redden, every eye in the courtyard on her. And as fate would have it, a set of those eyes belonged to a friend from long ago, a young man who had not yet forgotten his first love.

--

He stared. He had never been one to stare at anything outside of a textbook or chalkboard, but here he was now, outright gawking. Memories assailed his mind, the flashes of a past he had never wanted to forget.

She had changed much, but not nearly enough for him to forget. Her skin had seemingly softened under the desert sun, her dark hair blackened to midnight. A once thin body was now fuller, muscles built under the toiling life of a nomadic people. She was like his dream from so long ago, her stride confident, her piercing green eyes betraying no hesitation, no doubt to her motives nor her actions.

And like that, she was gone again, disappearing around the corner. The students began to chatter once again amongst themselves, most of the conversations centering on the country bumpkin's dreadfully embarrassing faux pas. Hoenheim paid them as much attention as Dante had, moving across the campus in a daze.

But rounding that corner timidly, struggling to think of something memorable to say, he found only empty road. She was gone.

--

He didn't see her again for the rest of the week, lost in the flood of new faces. The remainder of the students arrived on campus, settling into the new lifestyle like they were born for it. Charged with that anxious energy that only comes from being on your own for the first time, loud days in the campus gave way to louder nights.

Drunken parties and debauchery were not what the administrators had expected; after all, what student ambitious enough to be accepted into the prestigious university would act so depraved? It was clearly the work of the outside population, infecting the minds and wills of the student body, said the head administrators. And so the gates were to be closed at sunset, keeping the cancerous element out and the academic element in. Curfews were ordered, and enforced heavily. All supplies, including wines, were to be rationed. The school grounds started to resemble what some considered an ideal world, a world much like a military state.

After that first week, as things began to settle and the leaves began to change color, it finally began to resemble the school they first pictured. Small classes encouraged interaction, and peer relationships. Hoenheim approached each class eagerly, not so much for the academic element, but for the hopes of meeting his old friend. His hopes were dashed, however, after the first fortnight, when he completed the preliminary class cycles. She was in none of them.

He finally caught a glimpse of her one breezy afternoon, sitting under the shade of a large tree. She sat in a group of women, and as he edged closer, he could hear them discussing religion and faith, its impact on the current world.

"I think the world has no need for faith," said one girl, trying her best to seem jaded. "Really, what good has ever come from prayer?" Murmurs ran through the group, some of agreement, some of dissent. Finally, someone spoke up, her voice smooth but challenging.

"Faith gives those with nothing, something," argued Dante. "Having something to believe in, whether it be in a God or not, drives us to survive, to do better in this world."

"And when has faith ever fed you? When has it ended your suffering?"

"Don't speak to me of suffering, you who grew up in your palatial homes, with your personal servants and overflowing gardens. I know from experience that faith sustains as much as water or food. Not knowing the next time we would eat, or have a handful of clean water…it teaches you the value of what you do have. Faith shows us that we will get what we need, always. We will always find a way to survive, no matter what."

"And your people…how well have they thrived with only your faith? Or you, for that matter?"

"I am here, aren't I," challenged Dante, waving her hand across the group. "Here with the elite of the aristocracy, a simple peasant girl from the deserts…? Progress isn't made overnight; we are here, as we always shall be."

The girl fumed. "You shall be where we allow you to be," she said bitterly.

Dante shrugged. "We have faith you will do as you see fit, as always," said Dante mockingly.

Hoenheim smiled despite himself. He had never been one for religious studies, but Dante's sheer passion reminded him immediately of the girl he had once known, and the boy he had once been, not so long ago.

The group broke from the meeting, and Hoenheim froze where he stood, hidden behind a tree. Peering carefully around the corner, he saw her again, radiant and strong. Words could not find their way to his mind, nor courage to his feet. He sat in his hiding place until she was gone, ashamed once again of his inability to act.

Later, as the dusk settled, he returned to his dorm, comforted by his stack of textbooks. Outside, he could hear the sounds of young men living their lives fully, and his heart was saddened with envy.

--

The next few days were heavy, bogged down by a depression he hadn't known for many years. He had always known what he wanted, and even now, he still knew. But while he had known how to pursue his other goals, he hadn't the faintest clue how to approach his old acquaintance. So saddened by his inaction, it only bred more inaction, thus more depression. It was almost cyclical.

And then came the day he had a chance to break it. Lost in his newfound misery, the classroom had lost the comfort it once possessed. Until she walked in. Like a cloudburst in the desert, his world suddenly felt renewed.

"Can we help you," asked the professor, vexed by the interruption. He had been explaining a theory on thermodynamics at the time, and felt he was finally making headway with the class.

"I am here for the class," said Dante unapologetically. "My advisor suggested I give this class a chance."

"Ah, how fortunate for us," said the man sarcastically. "Please have a seat," he said, waving to the many empty seats before him. The class was full of young men, as the sciences were often unappealing to women.

Hoenheim found himself praying for the first time in his life, praying that she would take the empty seat beside him. Some God must have answered, he thought ecstatically, for she took the seat next to him, and even smiled faintly at him. He nearly melted, but when she showed no sign of recognition, his heart sank. Her smile was quickly replaced with a complete focusing on the lesson, and his heart fell completely. Still, he could smell the faintest bit of perfume on her hair, and that lifted his spirits.

"So as I was saying, the next theoretical law states that 'energy can neither be created nor destroyed', factoring in an equivalence of energy…we can transfer energy, reshape it to our own ends, but we can never truly create nor destroy it. The same can be said of matter, and its inherent conservation within a closed system. Meaning…what exactly?"

The girl raised her hand. "That gain can only come with loss?"

"Precisely," said the professor, impressed by her immediate contribution.

--

She began to pop up more and more in his lectures; sometimes officially enrolling, other times not. The subject matter seemed to interest her at times, but he would often times see her dozing off, or disappearing altogether. Part of him idly wondered if she were even the same girl he had known years ago. She was so mysterious now, no longer the upfront and brutally honest girl she had once been.

One day, he was sitting in lab, getting ready to perform an experiment, when she suddenly appeared at his side.

She nodded knowingly to him, looking disinterestedly around. She appeared as if she had other places to be, but was stuck here.

"Hello," he said warily, caught off guard by her sudden appearance.

"What are you doing here," she asked, glancing over his apparatus.

"Testing the professor's theory on conservation—"

"The _professor's_ theory," she laughed. "You know he stole that from someone else, right?"

"Well, I didn't mean _literally_ his theory," stammered Hoenheim. He couldn't recall the last time he had been corrected on something so obvious.

"And here I thought you were one of the few with a clue…"

"It was simply a poor choice of words," he argued.

She smirked. "Well, the theory sounds practical and sensible, but in the real world, I wouldn't give it too much credence."

"Why not? It makes perfect sense to me."

"Nothing is absolute in the real world," said Dante.

"Science is."

"Is it…" she asked, her eyes growing distant. "Not so long ago, my people suffered through one of the rainiest seasons ever in recorded history. Raindrops thick as fists poured onto their heads, strong enough to cave in rooftops. Crops drowned every day; livestock and people too. So, to hold the water back, they built what they thought to be a sturdy dam. Three weeks of nonstop work, and they were finished. But two days later, it gave way, the accumulation of water so great that it drowned the entire village in their sleep, sparing no one. All that energy and work they put into their imperfect dam, all for nothing. What was gained then?"

Listening carefully to her story, he struggled to find an answer to her question.

"Knowledge," he finally replied. "Your people learned to build better dams as a result of their sacrifice."

"Is that so," she asked. "What if I were to tell you that my people never attempted the construction of another dam after that incident?"

"Then I would say the only thing they gained was fear," he answered. "Which they deserve, then. A cowardice to act is a cowardice to live."

"Strong words," she nodded solemnly. "And what if I were to tell you that I completely made that story up?"

"I would say you gained my attention at the cost of your integrity," he said, laughing.

"A pittance, then," she chuckled. "What is your name," she asked.

Here was his chance. "Hoenheim," he replied, searching her face for the faintest sign of recognition.

"That's an…interesting name," she said, still showing no recollection of their past relationship. "I am Dante."

"It's nice to meet you…Dante," he said, her name on his tongue a reminder of his loss.

She simply nodded, more intent on his displacement setup. "You overcompensated for the carbon, Hoenheim," she pointed out, paying no attention to his inner turmoil.

--

School began to speed up. His class load suddenly seemed to ease with his new lab partner, the outgoing and brilliant Dante. No longer feeling awkward and lonely, he found his mind sharpening, his focus broadening with the growing time he spent with her. However, despite the shared brilliance, the two rarely saw eye to eye.

"Faith has no place in the sciences," he argued, as they often did.

"You're wrong. Which isn't a surprise, since you're always wrong, but this time you're so wrong that it's well outside the boundary of what's ever been documented as wrong in the course of human history…!"

"There aren't degrees of 'wrong'," he said. "There is either wrong or not wrong…ah, I mean right."

"So the man who is always so wrong has actually become an authority figure on wrongness…?"

"No," he said carefully. "I just think that faith belongs in church. Where it has a use."

"You can be so stubborn, Hoenheim," she said. "How else does a scientist know that the same chemical reaction will always take place?"

"Science! He knows because it is fact!"

"No, it is faith! Believing in your precious science is the same as believing in the unknown…without faith, science wouldn't exist," she argued passionately. "You can have faith in things other than unseen Gods; you can have faith in a person, in yourself!"

So their arguments went, back and forth, constant and passionate, never ending and usually untimely. On that day, however, he was bound by his insecurities no longer, grabbing a hold of her to bring her towards him. Their lips met, his spirit soared.

Only a few weeks ago, he had thought he was completely lost, hapless and alone. He had jealously watched his peers find their niches in the school's hierarchy, defining themselves with activities, sports, social events…everything but the one thing he was good at: academia.

One person had reached out to him in those early weeks, a young man who had lived down the hall from Hoenheim. Much like Dante, he was from the eastern lands, cultured in a simpler lifestyle. He went by Gilvir, and had astounded Hoenheim with his extensive knowledge of the literary classics from all over the world. Hoenheim's silly self-pity removed him from even this friendship, however, as it would most. No one wanted to be around someone so miserable and helpless, no matter how brilliant he was. Even his tutoring jobs began to peter out, his clients reluctant to take lessons from a man unable to keep his life in order.

Things had begun to change that day he saw Dante, heard her sing-song voice spouting angry words. He forgot the pitiful man he had once been when he felt her soft lips against his own for the first time. She had tasted sweetly, and he drank deeply that day, afraid he would never taste it again.

"And another thing," she said, pushing him away, eager to resume their argument.

"Oh, be silent already," he interrupted, deftly pulling her towards him again. She didn't resist.

--

If they were inseparable before, they were now bonded at the hip. Dante quit her religious studies discussion group (much to the relief of the other members), finally satisfying her advisor, and turned her extra time over to Hoenheim (much to the relief of the young man). He, in turn, quit his tutoring sessions, never having needed the money, but needing to spend every extra second now with Dante.

One would think the couple turned themselves away from the world, but that was hardly the case. With their newfound freedom and brighter outlook on the world, the two attracted old friends back, as well as new ones. Gilvir wandered back into the fold, and it turned out that he was to eventually become a cousin to Dante. Old customs from their old world were brought to light, much to the curiosity of the westerners. Despite being only sixteen, Gilvir had been engaged for over ten years, promised to the daughter of a nearby chieftain, a village cousin of Dante's. Arranged marriages had been lost on the westerners, who could only laugh at such a stodgy old tradition. But watching the others laugh, Hoenheim noticed that Dante sat stonily silent.

"Is something wrong," he whispered to her, afraid he might have offended her with his disbelief at the outdated practice.

"No," she flustered. "It is a silly thing."

Hoenheim went to press her, sensing something was amiss, when Gilvir's voice interrupted them.

"It might sound like I will have it good," he began drunkenly. "But Dante here…no, _she_ has it made, my friends! Engaged to the son of tribal lord…?"

The party stopped. Dante shot him a look of daggers as all eyes turned to her.

"Eh? What did I say," mumbled Gilvir.

"Is it true," Hoenheim finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me."

"It is…true," she admitted, her head hanging. "But I—"

The door behind her slammed loudly, and she could only see the faint outline of Hoenheim as he ran into the night.

--

She caught up to him by the main library, both out of breath. Empty sidewalks greeted the couple, the white glow of streetlights guiding them down a desolate road. Staring at one another, she waited for a moment for him to catch his breath. He finally spoke.

"Why didn't you tell me," he panted, his hands on his hips.

"I didn't think it was important," she said. "It was a decision by my now dead parents from eight years ago…I don't have to honor their silly wishes."

"It sounds important to me," he hissed. He could hardly believe she was already fully recovered from the chase, but then again, she had caught up to him so easily.

"You laughed at the custom," she pointed out. "You know how silly it is, to pledge one's honor and loyalty to someone you haven't even met?"

"You and Gil…are both bound by your culture's customs," he said. "I see it in you everyday; the way you eat, the way you sit, the way you think."

"And the way we love too," she asked accusingly. "I do not love that man."

"Maybe so, but—"

"I love you," she said, her eyes never leaving his as she spoke the words he had waited a lifetime to hear.

"I love you too," he said, stepping forward to embrace her under the comforting light of a sidewalk lamp, safe in each other's arms.

They made love that night for the first time. He had noticed before, walking with her, how sharply their skin tones contrasted, how deeply different they must have appeared standing next to one another. But under that blanket of dim stars and a broken moon, they were one and the same, bonded by a union beyond the physical boundaries of his snow pale skin and hers like mountain-ridged desert sand. They had both swum through a sea of eternal darkness, icy cold and bitterly alone, to ultimately find another and join as one, in ecstasy.

--

Lying in bed that night, watching her sleep so peacefully, Hoenheim's mind wandered through the last few weeks. He ran a hand along her body, lingering here and there, her skin cool under his gentle caresses. The arguments, the drama…all of it seemed to slip away in the quiet still of the night as he stared at her sleeping form.

Spring was only three weeks away, but the winter frost held fast. Rising carefully from the bed, he stood by the window to watch the empty street below. A snaking crack on the windowpane breathed cool night air onto his naked skin, and he shuddered.

He listened to the wind howl, ripping its way through the city streets, so beautiful and terrible in its elemental fury. It seemed that winter didn't want to leave so easily, he thought with a wry smile. Filled with strength from his sexual awakening, he understood how it felt. Here he was, a young man with all the gifts and skills one could want, with a woman who returned his love. He should be so lucky in his next life, he thought, and the thought surprised him. For he had never thought of a life after his own; the very idea of a spirit or soul had struck him as foolish only a few months ago.

The catalyst for this change lay behind him, beneath the covers, dozing quietly. Though they had argued often, she had never tried to force her views upon him, only to make him understand her own beliefs. Lately she had been going on and on about lost magic and science, believing that mankind had risen and fallen thousands of times over, starting each time from scratch.

"That's ridiculous," he had said. "Civilizations don't just disappear."

"Why not," she argued. "There were hundreds of tribes of my people who vanished over a short period."

"Nothing can exist long enough to reach the peak of society's ideals, then not only fall, but disappear completely from memory and history."

"Why, because of your insistence at equivalence?"

"Partly; but I imagine a cataclysm of change to be so drastic, it must also be powerful enough to live on in human memory."

"And what if humans had been wiped out by this cataclysm?"

"Then we wouldn't be here. Humans can't appear from nothing."

"What if instead of nothing, we grew from other types of organic matter? What if we developed and adapted from lower life forms?"

"Like kittens? Or dogs? How about frogs?"

"Stop being an ass," she said angrily.

"Stop being unreasonable…you're pulling ideas seemingly out of the air, with no evidence to back it up. Scientific method demands—"

"I don't care about your scientific method! Thinking, knowledge…why limit the way one can think? Science comes from other places than your textbooks, your experiments!"

"Like where else?"

She regarded him warily before replying. "Your heart."

Despite himself, he laughed. "You can't be serious?"

"Am I, Hoenheim," she asked. "Tell you what: prove with your precious science that you love me, and I you. And if you cannot do that, ask yourself what that means."

"That's completely different," he replied. "It's impossible to prove how one _feels_—"

"So you are a liar, then, for you cannot prove your love? Or is it not truly there?"

"I-I…don't know," he stammered. "I just know how I feel."

"And I? Do you so easily doubt my love since it cannot be proven with science?"

"Of course not," he said weakly.

"And what we see? Can we explain everything we see?"

"No, I suppose we cannot…yet."

"My mother had visions," she said suddenly, turning away. "Of another world, where the people looked as we do, but lived so differently; so greedily, so hungrily. Nothing but war and strife around them, she saw brother turn on brother, father against child…" She shuddered so harshly that Hoenheim could hardly deny what she believed.

"Sounds more like our world than any other," he said gently. She shook her head.

"No, there was more to it," said Dante, her eyes suddenly damp. "My mother died with that vision in her head, died to the cheers of our neighbors, eager to dispose of the things she warned the children about," she said, breaking into sobs. Hoenheim took her in his arms, feeling her shake as tears poured forth.

"Shh, it's ok," he said, rubbing her back.

"Frightened children and their nightmares versus my mother's life…crazy, isn't it," she said, wiping away her tears angrily.

"People fear what they don't know," he answered. "Science has always faced that obstacle. Even now—"

"I-I have also seen this world, Hoenheim," confessed Dante. "I saw it for myself…everything she said was true."

"You saw this place? How?"

"I would see them after I…used faith healing. In my sleep."

"…In your dreams?"

"I know what I saw," she said angrily, pushing him away. "How can you doubt me so easily?"

"It's just…I mean, _faith healing_? That is a stretch for anyone, Dante, much less I."

"And yet you have no doubts about my heart when I tell you the same," she countered. "…I have seen it work, performed it myself…it works, Hoenheim."

"Perform it now, then…on me."

"But you are not injur—"

A knife suddenly appeared in his hands, its blade short but sharp; Dante recognized it as his alchemic tool of choice, perfect for drawing in soft sand or hard wood. Before she could stop him, he ran its edge deftly against his left palm. A stream of blood appeared, thickening and trickling down the creases of his clenched fist.

"Show me," he said, his eyes deadly serious. "No parlor tricks, no frivolity. Heal me now."

"You overdramatic fool," she cried, grabbing for a rag. "It doesn't work like that!"

"How must it work then," he demanded, pulling his hand away.

"You must be a follower of the faith," she replied. "I cannot heal one who does not believe."

"That is nonsense," he said simply, despite his surprise at her words.

She sighed. "Faith healing, like all science or magic, stems from harmony. Finding the balance between the functions of the human body, its spirit, its energy, and how it relates to nature…"

"Are you saying I lack harmony?"

"You have a challenging mind; you cannot accept unless you see. For me to heal you, it would be like an ant scaling a mountain simply to prove it could."

"I am still bleeding, Dante," he said. "Make me believe…I promise to put my doubts aside…for you."

After a long pause, she nodded silently, taking his bleeding hand in hers. Dabbing one finger into the cut, she began to draw concentric circles in the air, the dark crimson fingertip tracing strange symbols. She next pressed that same finger to her wrist, recreating the circle she had mimicked moments earlier. The blood dripped and ran along the skin of her forearm as the form of a twisting snake slowly took shape.

Clasping his cut hand within both her hands, she gazed deeply into his eyes. Though she had done so many times before, this time felt oddly different to him. There was no doubt in those eyes, no worries, no fears. They simply stared at him, empty orbs of piercing clarity betraying no emotion.

A strange tingling sensation ran along his arm where it met her hand, a cold shiver as if all the hairs in his body were standing straight up. Then, as a great heat began to sooth his muscles, his mind felt suddenly at ease.

His eyes widened in disbelief when he noticed the blood thinning, its path lessening along his arm. The pain left him next, the slight singe a faded memory. But when a sliver of blood appeared at Dante's lips, trickling down her fine neck, he finally understood the impact of what she had done.

She was right; faith healing, like every other mystery, stemmed from harmony, and finding the balance within itself. The cycle of what things were, becoming what they will be…it was the realization of the inevitable. Neither magic nor science can create what is not there. It can perform no miracle without cost. It was as his professors had taught, as all his life had shown him.

Equivalency. Everything worked within a closed cycle, a tightly knit loop. The key that he had been eluding him for all this time was the circle; he had to work within the limitations of the circle, of the perpetual loop. That would be the foundation of their research.

She dropped his no longer injured hand, her fatigue obvious. Taking the rag she had intended to use for his bandage, he delicately dabbed at the blood on her chin, his eyes locked on hers. He nodded solemnly, understanding what she had done for him.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me, Dante…why do your people embrace faith healing, but not the sciences?"

"A healer works within the cycle of life," she replied wearily. "Always. To restore balance to the world, it must first begin with the heart of the healer, and the infirmed. Only then will the people embrace something they cannot understand. There is no ulterior motive to a faith healing. Only the beneficent will of one person, and the inherent desire to become better by the other."

"But there are those who desire health for unhealthy reasons; injured bandits who wish to kill more, healers who would heal for money…"

She shook her head. "It is simply the way of my people," she shrugged. "We believe that we, as a people, were chosen directly by God; not to rule, nor to serve, but to stabilize the harmony of His will. That is why we are blessed with the powers of healing, and only a select few are trained as adepts in the arts."

"And you are one of these adepts?"

"My mother was a true adept, and her teacher," replied Dante. "But I…I am but a lost apprentice, taught the basic foundation of the arts, but never committed enough to be considered an adept…it is believed that only one adept is born every generation, chosen directly by God."

"But what you have just done…it is incredible!"

"It is something we were taught never to do for show," she said guiltily. "I have committed a grievous wrong today; I would be cast out amongst my people if they were ever to know."

"It is more than that, Dante," he said quietly. "You did more than heal a cut on my hand, or convince me that there are things beyond what we can see and prove…you have shown me the key to it all."

"Key to what?"

"Alchemy," he replied. "I think I know how we can perform it."

--

"You realize that theorists have been struggling with this idea for a thousand years? With no success whatsoever?"

"Those 'alchemists' were only after one thing: wealth. Turning lead to gold," he scoffed. "But us…us," he said, pulling her into his arms. "We seek knowledge; alchemy can be what we have been looking for all those years, Dante!"

"Hoenheim," she said gently. "This is dangerous; not just physically, but the alchemy you speak of has been banned for centuries…!"

"Risk without gain? That goes against the very foundation of equivalence, the basis of our alchemy," he cried passionately. Something in his words worried Dante; he had never been so zealous in any other field. It frightened her, seeing him as he was.

"But we have no idea what we are doing…these circles…how can you even be certain of what they mean?"

"The pursuit of all new knowledge must begin blindly," he said, checking over the markings again. "You know as well as I that these symbols are constants throughout history…besides, this circle reminds me of something I once saw, the remains of a miracle," he added, the last part under his breath. He still yearned to ask her if she remembered him from their childhood, but he had yet to find the courage.

"But to put them in so complex an array…?"

"Look," he said quietly. "If you do not want a part of this, I will understand. I would never force you to do something you did not want to do," he assured her, feeling her trembling form. "But I feel the excitement in you too, my love. This shall be our mark on the world, I swear it. Our love will be the stuff of legend, this leap in alchemy our legacy…"

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, the fear and doubt vanishing with his soft words. He was right; this was what she had searched for. This new science, this new faith…it would be more than their first step into the world together. It would be the bridge between his people and hers.

--

The cool spring morning had cast its dewy touch across the wisps of grass, hardening to crusty frost. Sounds of nature began to filter into the world, the chirping animals and crisp morning breeze. Beyond that, the loud curses of a man broke through the scene, a man frustrated from working clear through the night.

"Nothing is happening," he grimaced. "Again!" Angry, he kicked the broken toy, splintering its wooden base against the rocky floor.

"Perhaps we balanced the elements incorrectly," suggested Dante. "There could be something in the wood we neglected."

"No, no that can't be it," he said, rubbing his forehead in deep thought. "It is probably this silly array of mine."

"The array looks fine to me," she said, kneeling down by the circle. "You even compensated for the chlorides here, and…"

Engrossed by her intense study of the circle, she leaned forward to rest her hands along the edges. A cold feeling ran through her as her body temperature dropped several degrees, static electricity leaping from her fingertips to singe the ground. The transmutation circle began to glow blinding light. It spread in all directions, growing until the light consumed her body and mind.

--

Warm rays of sunlight poured across her face, and she awoke to the glare, sweat on her brow. Wrapped in white linens, she realized she was in a hospital room of some sort. Hoenheim sat at the foot of her cot, dirty and unshaven, dozing in a chair. The moment she stirred, he awoke, alert and red-eyed.

"Dante," he cried, leaping to hug her tightly. Raining kisses on her face and eyes, she had to push him off just to catch her breath.

"What happened," she asked, looking around. The entire wing was empty save her solitary bed; the two were alone.

"They don't know," he said, relieved. "But you look better now."

"How long was I…out…?"

"Four days," he said, and she then understood the urgency of his earlier reaction.

"Four days," she whispered. "My god…"

"Some of the doctors thought you were dead," he scoffed, and she could hear the painful memory in his voice. "I knew you would wake…eventually."

"You…stayed with me?"

"Of course," he replied sheepishly. "It is my fault, after all…"

"Don't speak of such things," she said, taking his hand into her own. "We both knew the risks from the beginning…"

"I never thought we would see the end so quickly, though."

"What do you mean?"

"The school administrators did not…appreciate our experiment. Effective yesterday, I have been expelled from the university."

"What?!"

"No worries," he said, raising a hand to reassure her. "I told them I tricked you into the experiment, so your tenure is safe."

"I don't care about my tenure! What about you," she cried. "What about…us," she added, the last word barely a whisper.

"My father is upset by the expulsion, his partner…you. I seem to be the only one not bothered by it," he replied. "I have come to terms with it."

"But our plans…the research…"

"This is too dangerous for us," he said calmly. "For all our education and skill, we are still just children in this world, Dante. We have full, exciting lives ahead of us; it would be foolish to risk them in the pursuit of something that might not even work."

"But didn't it work," she asked. For all the pain she went through, at the very least they might have something to show for it.

"No," he said quietly. From his pocket he removed the remains of the toy, a splintered mass of jagged wood and warped tin, charred as if scalded by an intense heat. "It failed."

"But that was only a first run," she argued. He smiled faintly at her insistence, shaking his head. Something dawned upon her. "You know what really happened, don't you?"

"I…have my suspicions," he replied, looking away.

"Tell me, Hoenheim," she said, putting her hand on his. "This involves me; I deserve to know what happened."

"I…I think the transmutation needed a source of energy to supply the reaction. We had thought the potential energy would be enough, but as it turned out, the transmutation sought a completely different source of energy," he said, and his eyes for the first time betrayed his fear.

"Me," she whispered, taking her hand back.

"Yes, or a part of you, a part we don't fully understand yet."

"The soul."

"Possibly," he shrugged. "Who are we to know? All that matters is that you are safe, and better. Next semester you can re-enroll in the medical courses—"

"No," she interrupted emphatically. "I came to this school to pursue knowledge in its purest form. To abandon the pursuit when our experiments were so close to fruition…that goes against everything I believe in. And, I thought, everything you believed in as well," she added, her tone accusing.

"I don't know what to believe in anymore," he said, shaking his head.

"We knew there would be hurdles," she said gently, cradling his tired face in her hands. "We knew we would falter. We knew we might even fail. But we will never abandon our goals, Hoenheim, not ever."

"I…need to rest, catch my breath," he said slowly. "This is too much, too quickly."

"Come here," she said, opening her arms. Crawling into bed with her, he fell asleep the instant his head met her body. And though she would never tell him of it, he wept in his sleep that night.

--


	3. Union of Souls

**Chapter 3: Union of Souls**

The next morning found the two alone, again.

He awoke to her bright eyes studying him intently, lips spreading into a sharing smile as he blinked away sleep. He brushed her lips gently with his fingertips, cupping her cheek in his hand.

"How are you feeling," he asked.

"I am fine," she said, looking around. "Not that the medical staff here seem to care."

"That might be a bit of my, ah, doing," he admitted, embarrassed. "I was so upset by the doctors' first prognosis that I went a bit…mad. Since then, they have been keeping a safe distance."

"I'll say," she laughed. "I have not seen a single person all morning."

"You seem completely better now," he said, relieved.

"I am," she replied, sitting up in the bed. "And…I have been laying here, thinking. Thinking about the future, the experiments…I too will leave this school."

"But—"

She shook her head once, firmly enough to silence any argument.

"The experiment…the alchemy…I thought it over, and realized what happened those days ago, in the lab."

"What was it," he asked, betraying his interest by sitting up to face her.

"It was just a day, really," she replied mysteriously. "A day from two years ago."

"I don't understand," he said, his brow arching in confusion.

"For the transmutation to work, it needed a source of energy…just as you said. It took that from me instead, putting me here. And I think I know what it took, Hohenheim." He nodded slowly, his attention focused completely upon her.

"It took that day from me," she said, and chuckled lightly under her hand. "I spent all night trying to remember a day that mattered so much to me, but I could not."

"Your memory? You lost your memory," he asked, dumbfounded.

"I thought so at first," she replied. "But a short while ago, I was finally able to remember that day," she added, her eyes distantly dreamy. Misty eyed, she continued.

"It was only two years ago, during a terrible drought. Our crops were beginning to starve, and no one, even my mother, could heal hunger. I hiked across the plain in search of a wellspring, to no avail. Walking back, two days later, I was ambushed by a group of men from a nearby tribe, looking to kidnap and ransom me for our caravan's water, or maybe my mother's healing touch. But as they pursued me, the sky suddenly opened, dumping rain upon the village and…saving us all. My pursuers wept tears of joy, dancing in the rain, forgetting about me."

"…So you recovered the memory?"

"No, that is just it. I can remember the events, as if someone had told me about them, but nothing else of importance, Hohenheim: the tastes, the smells, the feel of my fear or the fatigue in my legs. It is as if I watch from another body, with no real attachment to the events, no joy or dejection or…hope. You were right."

"Right? About what?"

"My soul. It took a piece of my soul…as equivalent exchange."

"Equivalent exchange…?"

"It took that small piece of my soul to destroy the toy. Our array was too aggressive, without proper control points to balance our lack of an energy source."

"I do not understand why that matters…"

"Because it _works_, Hohenheim," she whispered sharply to him. "Alchemy works and we have discovered how."

--

There was no further argument. The day he was politely escorted off the campus, she was already waiting at the gates, her lone satchel slung over the worn poncho covering her shoulders. The only other possession she had come to the school with, her mule, had been the subject of a mean-spirited prank that unintentionally resulted in the mule's death and an embarrassed administration. And so her possessions were tied tightly in a wrap closely resembling mule hide (although upon closer inspection, it would _very_ much resemble mule hide). After all, Dante was not the type of person to let something go to waste.

Shelby, his father's business partner, had set up train fare for the two travelers, much to Armstrong's dismay. Armstrong's pride was hurting, the distinguished family name besmirched by Hohenheim's foolish pursuit of what many viewed as a heathen science. As a result, the two had not spoken in weeks for the first time in their long relationship. Surprisingly, this seemed to bother Hohenheim little, a whole other world opening itself to him.

The two were approaching the ticket counter when she spoke up.

"It would serve us well to travel the Old world in our research."

"Why? I thought you said they might attack our work with their 'backward thinking', perhaps even us?"

"Maybe so, but we will have space, open areas to experiment. If something should go wrong, we can avoid involving innocents."

"Ah, of course," said Hohenheim, embarrassed that he had not thought of the same thing. Life would be hard for him without the luxuries of the city close at hand.

"There is also a caravan, traveling through the east," began Dante. "In it is a woman; another healer, like my mother."

"What good will she do us?"

"My mother once told me of her healing technique," said Dante, her eyes so intent on the empty horizon, it seemed as if she was searching for the memory. "She possessed a healing touch, but more importantly…she used a healing circle."

"A circle…? Are you thinking…a transmutation circle?"

"I do not know what to think yet, but I do know that this woman was designing arrays long before either of us thought them up."

"That is not entirely true," he whispered. "I got the idea for the array from something I saw as a child, when I was in the hospital."

"What was it?"

"A circle, drawn in blood, strange symbols within it…"

"Strange symbols…?"

"A snake, entwined around diamonds, consuming its own tail."

"That _is_ strange," she said thoughtfully. "And do you know who drew it?"

"No," he replied, himself lost in thought. The line had shortened without his notice, and before he knew it, the two were at the front of the queue. Dante ordered the tickets briskly, not seeming to notice that their conversation remained unfinished. Seeing her in profile, under the shadowed eave of the ticket counter, he thought he saw something familiar, something as if from a dream. "Nothing," he mumbled, deciding against the memory. It had been a long time ago, after all.

--

The world was not so neatly divided to simply categorize as "Old" or "New". Though divided by massive oceans of boiling sand, bits of each world had begun to seep into the other. On top of that, most of the far eastern lands remained unexplored, at least according to the texts of the university. Few who ventured into that misty horizon mirage were ever heard from again.

Hohenheim reminded his traveling companion, Dante, of this fact as they trudged along the edge of the known world. Wrapped tightly in thick tunics, they tried fruitlessly to block the gusting sands from their faces. But by the time the sun set on the tundra, the two were encrusted from head to toe with sand.

"I think we are far enough from people now," pleaded Hohenheim, never one for long travel.

"Our search is just beginning, my love," Dante replied, trying her best to bolster her companion. "We have found the location of our staging ground, but we have not the research yet to proceed."

Cresting a low hill, the two stopped, Hohenheim leaning against his walking staff to catch his breath. He longed desperately to pull aside the mask wrapped around his mouth, but knew the taste of sand was hardly worth the risk. Dante looked warily at him, as if she could sense his desire.

"When we reach the lower dustbowl," she said, touching his shoulder gently. She pointed to the distance, and he could see the speck that was without doubt the caravan they sought.

But as they descended the sandy decline, the once-small speck grew in size, and the two discovered instead the ruins of what had once been the caravan. Wagons and carriages had been split open, torn asunder by the rampage. The tattered shreds of cloth covers billowed in the desert wind, anything else worth taking long gone.

"My god," whispered Dante, pulling the mask from her face. Walking tentatively through the rubble, she pushed aside part of a broken fence that had penned in livestock, now absent.

"What happened here," asked Hohenheim quietly, faint memories of ruined homes and shattered hospitals haunting him.

"Marauders," replied Dante. "From the eastern lands. They have ravaged my people for centuries," she said angrily.

"I see no survivors," he said, whitening as he turned away from a pile of fresh corpses. "Should we turn back?"

"We must find what we came for," she said, striding towards the broken skeleton of the central caravan. "She _will_ be here."

"How can you be so certain? The bandits might have use for a healer, after all."

"They would hardly give her a chance to show her skills," spat Dante. "Their common practice is to immediately murder the able-bodied men and elderly, before taking the women and children for their slaves."

The thought chilled Hohenheim. Slavery had been common practice for his entire life, but he had never come to accept it as normal. Westerners as a whole were vehemently opposed to the practice, considering it beneath them and leaving it to the barbarous easterners. Still, there were those so accustomed to pampered living that they could hardly do without their slaves.

"This…is common?"

"For my people, yes," she said coldly, pushing the splintered door of the caravan open.

As the door swung open on broken hinges, casting shards of light through the beaded hangings, he heard her gasp. Leaping through the door without regard for his own safety, he found Dante holding an elderly woman on the floor, the two babbling in their native tongue. Luckily for him, he had spent long, dedicated hours secretly learning her language.

"Ama," wept Dante. "Ama, please answer me…"

"D-Dante…" croaked the dying woman. "You have grown…just like your mother."

"What did they want this time?"

The woman shook her head.

"It was different this time…they were rushing…left goods behind. Barely took the time to run me through properly."

"Why have you not healed yourself?"

The woman smiled weakly. "It is not so simple, young one. A price is paid for every healing, a cost only another can take."

"Then use me, Ama…please, I beg of you!"

At her words, Hohenheim felt his heart leap into his throat. Though he wanted to stop her, he knew he could not. She would do as she pleased, as always. Thankfully, she had no say this time; the first instance he could recall.

"No, my dear…it would be silly to risk your future to preserve one already so close to the other side. I have already come to grips with my fate."

"The world needs healers, Ama. _Our_ people need…please, reconsider."

"Aye, you speak the truth, young Dante. The world does need healers…and so, I leave to you my work…my journal, my notes, my books. Those illiterate savages had no use for them. But please, do not tarry, for they will soon return to scavenge what they can."

"I cannot take your works," said Dante tearfully. "They are rightfully yours."

"What good will they do me in the great beyond? Foolish child, set your emotions aside, and find your rightful place in this world," coughed the woman. "Find your place…"

Hohenheim's eyes had already scanned the long row of texts she had lining her shelves, all titles he was unfamiliar with. It took a conscious commitment to avoid reaching for them with the scene unfolding before him.

"How is she," he finally asked. The sun had begun to set only half an hour ago, and he didn't want to be out here in the night if those bandits came back.

"Gone," said Dante, setting her mother's friend down gently. "I must bury her now, before the wolves come."

"The…wolves…?"

"It is the least I can do in exchange for her knowledge. To honor her life, her being…" She uncharacteristically broke into tears as she spoke; he had no idea the woman had meant so much to her.

"Dante, I…" he began, reaching out. But before he could touch her, she cut him off sharply.

"Grab her feet," she said, her composure already returned.

--

"Why must we carry her so far," he complained, the camp far behind them.

"If we were to bury her there, the bandits would know others were in the area."

"What about the texts we took? Will they not notice them missing?"

"Ghouls like they would only notice missing books for lack of something to burn," she said bitterly. "When they ran out of corpses."

"Those men…how do your people allow them to roam so brazenly?"

"They are no different than the greedy pirates that plague your coast lines, the crouching thieves in your shadowed cities. They exist because society supposedly shuns greed and desire, ostracizing them, galvanizing them into a group."

"Is no one brave enough to stand up to them?"

"No one," replied Dante, placing the last rock neatly atop Ama's burial cairn. "Only us, Hohenheim," she said, her eyes smoldering like distant fires in the dusk.

--

They heard the desert wolves that night, or as Dante called them in her native tongue, the Zuagirs. From such a distance, Hohenheim was unsure whether they were man or beast, their shrill cries filling the night air with a startling ferocity.

"They have found prey," she said ominously, huddled under the awning. Though it had taken over an hour to set up, Hohenheim was glad to have the well-disguised tent hidden amongst the sand dunes.

"Better they than us," he muttered, pulling the flap shut. By the dimness of the candlelight, he continued his study of the recently deceased woman's texts. "These notes are amazing if only half of the postulations are true."

"They are what we had sought," Dante said distantly. "If only we had come a day sooner…"

"There is no use dwelling on that," he assured her gently. "You heard her, there was no more sacrifice you could make."

"And when did you begin studying our language, Hohenheim?"

"Ah, I-I," he stuttered. "About four months ago," he admitted. "I am sorry, I had meant it to be a surprise."

"That it is," she said with a smile, pushing aside a pile of notes. "Our research will undoubtedly be faster now without me having to translate for you."

"But…" he stammered. How could she not see the romantic implications of his dedication, he wondered, watching her bury her nose back into the notes.

"Get some rest," she said, not even glancing up from her work. "We depart before dawn."

--

They awoke hours later to a windless heat. Though the sun's light had yet to rise, the impending warmth of the day was in the forefront of their minds. The desert tundra had seemingly changed much in one night, each sand dune lessened, larger, unlike previously. It would be too easy to lose one's way in this wasteland.

The heat set upon them like ravenous beasts. Amidst the ocean of shimmering heat, without the slightest shade nor moisture, the pair lugged their precious cargo. Lost in his thoughts, carefully considering some of Ama's cryptic notes, Hohenheim forgot the dangers of the open desert, and a fatal misstep dropped him chest-deep in loose, sinking sand.

"Quicksand," Dante realized with a shout, dropping her parcels to thrust her walking staff towards him. But as the westerner struggled to free himself, he slid deeper away from her extended aid.

"Dante," he managed to shout once, tasting sand in his mouth.

"Stop thrashing, my love," she pleaded, dropping to her knees. Crawling forward, sensing the urgency of the situation, she began to desperately draw a circle into the sand. Feverishly she worked in those scant moments, the only visible part of her lover his waving hand, the rest lost in the sand. Had she been watching him. Instead, she finished the circle, and without checking it, pressed open palms against the blistering sand. Though it pained her for a moment, the searing pain was nothing compared to seeing Hohenheim's white hand disappear under that scorching earth.

The circle began to glow as it had before, but not nearly as brightly. Her stomach went cold, her skin pale as a dark wind arose seemingly from nowhere, tearing the mask abruptly from her face. The air around her crackled with energy, the temperature rising slightly. Though the sensation was intense, there was no threat of her being overcome once again by it.

The sand at her knees suddenly cooled, darkening. Through her clothes she could feel sudden moisture, and before this could compute in her mind, Hohenheim suddenly appeared in the sky, tossed by the geyser that had formed beneath him. Falling face first into the mud with a graceless splat, Dante rushed to his side, rolling him over.

His face was caked with mud, but when he coughed up dirt, she felt her spirits soar. She slapped him roughly on the back, forcing the rest of the sand out, meanwhile collecting some of the water in her empty canteen. He drank gratefully from the bottle, coughing with each long pull.

"Slow down," she warned. "There is plenty more."

He cast her a suspicious glance. "Alchemy?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I know it was risky, but—"

"You could have gotten killed," he said, spitting out the water.

"It was to save you, you stubborn fool!"

"You could have killed me as well!"

"What can one gain without risk," she asked. His words echoed back to him, he could say nothing more.

"Let me see your array," he finally said.

--

With fresh water sloshing in their bellies and canteens, the pair set out once again, this time a bit more carefully. Hohenheim's eyes darted back and forth on the earth before him, worried of another quicksand episode. In all the ways he had pictured perishing, drowning in hot sand was not one of them.

"I sincerely hope that was actual water you made back there," he said, rubbing his stomach gingerly.

"It was a simple matter of arranging hydrogen and oxygen elements," she said, and after a thought added: "You probably just drank too much of it."

"Anything to moisten these lips," he grumbled.

"So why are you complaining," she asked grumpily.

And so the bickering continued between them as they traveled; not the playful banter that had checkered their past, but one of constant frustration and marked tension.

Two days later, one day after they had stopped talking altogether, the pair sighted a rocky ridge in the distance. Nestled at the foot of the jagged formation was a familiar caravan. Pointing with her staff, Dante silently led the way.

The camp was soon reached, and Hohenheim could see people much like Dante in appearance; more of her people. She strode to the center of the camp, and in her native language asked for the one in charge. Her demands were met with more than one curious look, as her pale-faced companion was unlike any person they had ever seen.

"Dante," cried a familiar voice from behind them. The rest of the camp stopped staring, turning to see their rotund leader embracing the weary travelers. "And Hohenheim as well!"

"Gilvir, you old dog," laughed Hohenheim. "You are the last person I expected to see here!"

"I see you have learned our language well, old friend…and I can tell you have traveled long and far, at least by your odor."

"Cousin," said Dante. "Why are you here, why aren't you—"

"Questions for later, cousin," he bellowed. "First you must wash, then we shall have a proper celebration!"

--

Later, as the women roasted fruits and meats and the men prepared tables and shade, the three old friends gathered around a worn wooden table.

"It has been far too long, friends," Gilvir began, still jolly from their unexpected arrival. "What has it been, three years? Four?"

"At least," said Hohenheim.

"Gil, why are you out here," Dante blurted out at last. "Why are you not at the village?"

"The eastern lands are amiss, Dante," he said, his eyes lowering. "Those bandits are raiding and pillaging so blatantly that they have erased entire tribes. We saw them coming after us next, so we gathered all we could, and moved as far west as possible."

"This caravan…it is not just our village, is it?"

"No," he replied, hanging his head. "We lost so many, and found others scattered about…we took them on, hoping we can forage a decent life together here."

"There is no shame in that," said Hohenheim. "Your sense of justice has guided you well, Gil, as I always knew it would."

"Our culture is unlike yours, old friend," said Gilvir. "My failure to protect and guide my people is my own personal shame, a burden I must carry for the rest of my days."

"Where is my cousin," asked Dante suddenly, as if she sensed something in his words. "Where is Chela?"

Gilvir looked away; Dante's eyes narrowing to slits.

"Tell me," she insisted.

"Gone," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "They took her last season."

"And you did nothing," she asked in disbelief.

"Our people are not as they once were, Dante! They steal from each other, they lie to one another…I try to gather up some men to rescue the women, but they do not care! They move on to the next village, abandoning their roots, their heritage! Our people are lost," he said, shaking his head. "No one ever stays," he added, casting her a bitter glance.

Without another word, she rose from the table, storming out of the tent. Hohenheim tried to comfort his old friend's pain, but it was no use. The man had committed himself to a half empty bottle of wine, trying to drown the memories.

By the time Hohenheim caught up to her, she had climbed up a short ledge on the rocks, huddling against the setting dusk. She stared out beyond the camp, far into the darkening sky. Climbing beside her, he realized how much stronger he had become over just these past months.

"He did not mean his words to hurt you," said Hohenheim. "Your choice to leave was right; he cannot see that now, lost in his own misery."

"He is part right," she said quietly. "My people are lost."

"It surely cannot be that bleak."

She shook her head. "No, it is as he said…but I have not forgotten the important lesson you once taught me."

"And what was that?"

"That nothing can be lost without being gained."

--

The evening celebration was frugal, the supplies and rations of the caravan quickly dwindling from the onset. By the bitter glances of the caravan's members, Hohenheim got the feeling that they often celebrated frivolously, wasting what they needed.

"Perhaps we should show these people some alchemy," whispered Hohenheim to Dante, her eyes on the bonfire.

"Why, so Gil can turn water to wine," she scoffed, her eyes following their drunken friend, his jowls shaking as he danced oafishly. "That fool and his celebration…the smoke from the bonfire can be seen from miles around, and he is running through rations needlessly."

"This would be a good staging ground to practice some of our experiments, though," he insisted. "We could set up an irrigation system for them, a ready water supply, medical supplies…"

"They would never take it," she said bluntly, turning to him. "My people fear far more what they do not understand than yours; alchemy would be met with scientific curiosity by your people, but with fear by mine."

"Desperation and need will forgive any doubts they have…right?"

She shook her head. "Your heart is in the right place, but your head is not," she said with a faint smile. "Still…I am glad you are here with me, Hohenheim," she added, a familiar sparkle returning to her eye as she looked past him.

They met in the open plain that night, laying amongst the cool sand, moonlight on their bare skin. Passions rekindled, the couple made love for the first time in weeks, the countless fights and petty arguments left behind them in the desert wasteland.

"Perhaps we shall show them some alchemy after all," she breathed into his ear. But before he could reply, she was already fast asleep in his arms.

--

"It must be secret, though," she said the next afternoon, seeing her people struggle with the daily toil. "They must not know the source of their coming fortune."

"Must you always be so secretive," he asked, put out.

"It is safer _for_ _us_ that they not know, Hohenheim," she answered, effectively closing the topic for discussion.

"So what first?"

"A wellspring," she replied. "I have done it, now you must try it."

He knelt obediently on the sand and began to draw the transmutation circle. Though he had no idea already in his mind, the circle poured out fluidly, perfect and precise. Consulting Ama's notes (with his own penciled neatly along the margins), he began to alter the array, configuring for the elemental configuration.

"It is done," he said with a sigh. "I made an adjustment to yours; this should produce a continuous source of water as well."

"Always one to upstage me, eh?"

He laughed. "Something like that," he said.

A long moment passed, his hands wavering inches above the earth.

"What is wrong," she finally asked.

"Dante, how…how does it _feel_…?"

"It…is unlike anything I have ever felt, and yet…familiar. It is like the warmth one feels when with a loved one, only…it leaves you so very quickly. Like spilling a glass of your favorite wine, or a summer rain evaporating before its raindrops can touch your skin. It leaves you and you cannot recall what it was, only that you miss it."

"That sounds so…sad," he said, still hesitant.

"I prefer 'bittersweet'," she replied. "But like all life experience, you must find out for yourself."

Sensing the truth to her words, he leaned forward. The moment his palms touched the earth, he felt the ground beneath him tremble, his heart shuddering. A strange light arose from the earth, leaking through his open fingers and spilling into his eyes. The light was no single color, more like a beam of direct sunlight distorted through a diamond, constantly shifting to new designs and spectrums. Brilliant in all its glory, the light cooled the sweating skin on his face, tossing his unkempt hair back with its primal fury. Something like a hurricane swirled around him, as if he had stumbled upon the eye of the storm, the single calm place in all the world. He realized he had neither blinked nor breathed during the transmutation. And as soon it had begun, it was over.

When he opened his eyes a moment later, he could see Dante, standing with her back to him. As he arose, he saw the sprawling blue of a massive lake, crystal clear and pristine pure. Standing by Dante, he saw tears running down her face.

"You have really done it, Hohenheim," she said.

"Done what?"

"You have given my people what we have sought for centuries."

"And what is that?"

"A home," she replied, and there was something new in her eyes, something other than love. It was awe.

* * *

_Note: Ok, finally found a good place to mention a few things here and there. The general time period of this story is the mid-1500's or so, give or take a decade. Rather than do research and crap like that to find out "old speak", I decided to keep it modern and thus, familiar. The only change I consciously made was getting rid of conjunctions; which, for me, was a huge pain in the ass. As for Dante's ethnicity, I was thinking of her as having a Native American-like complexion, with a light blend of Jewish or maybe Muslim descent. Hohenheim is a straight up white boy; I thought of him as almost like the Pilgrims who first came to America._

_I know the story starts out a bit slow, but chronicling a 400-year relationship requires a bit of foundation to build from. There are a lot of twists and turns coming up, most notably appearances by familiar characters. Things will noticeably pick up in the next chapter, which should also be the longest so far. _


	4. Dissent

**Chapter Four: ****Dissent**

Change came gradually. People began to wander away less and less, the numbers steadying, eventually increasing. Nomads from all around the region heard tales of the miracle oasis that sheltered their people in the hardest of times. Some came to see it for themselves, others to perhaps find a home. Whatever the reason they came, more often than not they stayed, accepted into the growing community with open arms. It seemed as if the people walked with a lighter step, smiled a bit easier, talked more freely. Tribes that had once been bitterly divided set aside their differences, finding common ground around cozy campfires and precious watering holes.

And above them all, surprisingly sober, sat Gilvir, the man credited with saving the tribes. All who entered the oasis accepted his word as rule. After all, was he not the man chosen by God to lead his flock to the oasis? Cultural tradition dictated that he rule the new group. Reigning with a light scepter, his only law disposed of tribal segregation. He lived simply, as all men chosen by God were expected to, yet he found that the heaviest burden of all.

The experiments, meanwhile, had not stopped. While he tried his best to ignore the adulation and praise heaped upon Gilvir, Dante knew that Hohenheim regarded the whole setup bitterly. For as more of the sun-scorched nomads wandered into the oasis, the pale-skinned Hohenheim felt more and more the outlander. Shunned by most, he was ignored by the rest, the treatment burning his heart. Only the children treated him openly, before a wary parent stepped in, shielding the child from the threat.

"And after all I do for these people," he fumed.

"So it is 'all you' now?"

"Sorry, love, I meant 'us'," he said. "This oasis would not exist without us, and yet I am treated like the plague wherever I go!"

"We agreed that we would use this science to help others, Hohenheim, not feed our egos."

"Easy for you to say," he spat. "You are not vilified for the way you look!"

"Oh? I don't know what that is like?"

"Ok, ok…you win," he acquiesced. "But I swear…this camp will bear witness to the great things we can accomplish, Dante. They will come to accept what I-we can do, and they will celebrate the good fortune we bring."

"They will stone us if they witness what we can do," she said. "How many times do I have to say that for you to understand?"

"You do your people a disservice," he said. "They are open to new things, they have just never seen anything new."

"They have seen you…tell me, how open are they to you?"

"This generation is lost," he admitted. "But the children…they are impressionable, unmarred by their parents' superstitions and fears. We might reach them yet."

"You want to continue practicing alchemy in secret for the next ten years then?"

"No, I want to perform a transmutation so great that they cannot refuse to accept its validity."

"You are insane," she said, half chuckling, before she caught something in his eye.

"I am serious," he said quietly. "If we show no one what we have learned, what good will our sacrifices be? This knowledge must be studied and understood by future generations, not just us."

"I agree, but this is not the place, Hohenheim. Nor the time."

"We will never know if it is the right time until we try it, Dante. It is our responsibility to grant this power to others…"

"To grant, or to share?"

"It is our…privilege for the discovery, the risks, the dangers…"

"And what of their responsibilities then? What of a person consumed with lust for power, without the better sense to use alchemy sparingly? Have you considered that?"

"Evil men will do what they must," he said. "Such grand ambitions and greed might progress alchemic research even further…"

"You are not serious…?"

He shrugged. "Something else to consider."

"We have already progressed further than we ever thought we could, in less than a year," she argued. "There is no need to rush into things."

"If you say so," he sighed, but something in his eyes betrayed his words. In that moment, Dante knew that her patient words would not work much longer. For in his eyes she saw what concerned her earlier: the hunger for power.

--

The rocky crags of the sheer cliff jutted sharply against the china red sky, poking upwards into a thinly clouded horizon. Dusty sand rolled below, dancing with the whims of the capricious desert wind. Along the edges of the pointed cliffs, chunks of precious stone sparkled, brightly enough for the naked eye to see from miles away.

"Another success," panted Hohenheim, clearly enjoying the exhausting work. Though he had at first been reluctant to be the one to close transmutation circles, he had since grown to love it. "How many?"

"More than enough," replied Dante, chipping away at a jewel from a nearby rock. "More than any mine I have ever seen."

"Too much?"

"It might attract attention, especially from bandits."

"Bandits," he scoffed. "With our power, we could easily dispose of them."

"Hohenheim," she said sharply. "We agreed that alchemy would only be used to benefit mankind, remember?"

"Preserving our lives takes precedence," he replied coolly. "After all, mankind is better off without men such as those."

Thinking over her past experiences, Dante found it hard to argue with his line of thought. Still, somewhere in her heart she knew he was wrong, but could think of nothing she could say to express that feeling.

"The integrity of the stones look promising," she said instead. "The prism is exactly as we planned."

"I suppose the caravan's financial problems are over, then."

"I still say gold would have been better. Gems are so…tacky."

"Gold would have been a pain to incorporate into these rock formations," he said offhandedly. "You seem reluctant," he noted.

"This wealth…it should not be what people need to survive. I worry that this fortune shall only bring misfortune."

"These jewels will buy the supplies we cannot transmute, Dante."

"And it will bring every greedy tycoon who hears of it here to exploit the people's windfall."

"We knew the risk before we went forward; why the sudden change in heart now?"

She leaned glumly against a rock, staring beyond the camp below.

"I never thought it would really work," she whispered, her eyes rife with worry.

--

The gems did indeed prove to be a windfall for the caravan. Overseeing the first mining expedition, Gilvir nearly fainted at the appraisal of only a modest handful of stones. Almost as if sensing the consequences of the wealth, he then ordered the men of the caravan to gut the entire structure, to rip every precious stone from its root. Any man who found a stone would get half of its market value, he promised, the other half going to the caravan's general funds. While many a gem no doubt went pocketed by the miners, Hohenheim and Dante had seen to it that there was still enough of the ore to bring positive change.

Slowly, the general feeling around the caravan began to gradually shift. Wagon wheels began to gather dust. Structures began to be built with foundations. Soon, wheels weren't found on every dwelling, and dwellings became homes. A schoolhouse was built, then a hospital, but both only after a fine church was erected. It wasn't much longer that the citizens of the caravan began to refer to themselves as a town, built on a sprawling lake and nestled in the shadow of a mountain peppered with precious stones.

Only one man saw this growth as a detriment. And as fate would have it, that man was by no coincidence the man in charge: Gilvir. Many a sleepless night he tossed and turned in his stiff bed, plagued with thoughts of greedy bandits licking their lips in anticipation of the pillaging of his precious town. On these restless occasions, his only release was a leisurely stroll through the city streets amidst his people. With the newfound wealth throughout the citizenry, there was no crime to worry about, no lurking shadows with veiled daggers to scamper fearfully from.

It was on one such nighttime sojourn that his entire life would change. Granted, his life had seen its share of dramatic adjustments, with his marriage, the subsequent loss of his wife, his appointment to chief, his people's exodus from their home, and now their sudden wealth, but until that night, none of it had touched the person beneath the surface.

His eyes took in the starry night, low-ridged sand dunes lilting across the horizon like the body of a massive snake. Looking past one such ridge, he thought he saw for a moment the flicker of light. Instantly his mind panicked, the worst of possibilities playing in his paranoid mind. Bandits. Demons. Rabid wolves. None seemed to make sense in his mind, delusional as it was, so he stepped tentatively towards it.

Again, that flicker of light, wholly unnatural, yet…familiar. It reminded him of something from his lost youth, watching the skies glow incandescent blue, like icy fire etched across clear skies. His people had called the phenomena "sky fires", revering it as if it had spilled from the very kilns of God.

As he approached, he became aware that a structure lay before him, a hut that had not been there yesterday. Crudely constructed of smoothed mud and refined stones, it was still a domicile worthy of any tribal chief; save himself, of course, as he had begrudgingly taken a vow of poverty. Through a small opening on the southern wall, he peered into the dim gloom, his piercing eyes taking in the dark abode.

Two shadows melded before him, naked and huddled around a faint lantern. As they moved, he saw their bodies were painted with bizarre markings. Heathens. In _his_ town.

Anger boiled in the pit of his considerable belly, his fists clenching and unclenching reflexively. It took a great deal of self-control on his part not to rip down the front door and bludgeon the heretics with hammy fists. But as the shadows turned, and he saw the source of light, he recognized the pale skin of the man: Hohenheim. Which would mean the woman gyrating beneath him was…he shook his head. No…not her. Not _her_.

"Dante," he whispered, choking back tears. "Not you…"

--

Panting, he rolled off her, laying back to stare through the open roof and into the clear night.

"I like this kind of alchemy," he sighed. Beside him, she chuckled.

"Enough to bring it to the people," she teased.

"Depends what they look like," he answered, laughing playfully.

Their experiments had not stalled in the slightest with the town's growth. If anything, the couple was bolder with their moves, eager to provide for more citizens.

"I have to admit it, though…I am impressed," she said quietly, looking about.

"Well, I have been practicing," he replied, a hint of pride in his words.

"With whom," she wondered, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Oh, by myself, mostly, here and there," he said casually. "Where no one can see, of course."

She laughed gustily. "I hope for your sake we are both talking about you transmuting this hut from mud."

"Why, what else would I mean," he asked, puzzled.

"Nothing, Hohenheim…nothing," she chuckled, nuzzling against his chest with a heavy sigh. Despite himself, he smiled at the thought of her, their amendment of issues long past. Any intimacy problems they had experienced before coming to the caravan were long forgotten. He had discovered the greatest of aphrodisiacs for the fairer sex: that which is forbidden. Practicing their taboo alchemy in secret had driven her back into his arms, full of more fervent passion than ever before. Rare was it that a late night practicing their alchemy that did not end with the two consummating, their sweat smearing the paints scrawled neatly across their naked bodies.

Little did they realize, however, that tonight they had performed for an audience of one.

--

His sleep had not improved with the revelation. The once-stiff bed only seemed harder, more uncomfortable. Silken sheets felt coarse on his skin, the smooth, cool texture lost in his newfound worries. Most insomniacs curse the rising sun, the sign of another full sleepless night, but the tribal chief Gilvir was thankful for an excuse to get up and move about.

Almost mechanically, he found himself walking hurriedly to the sand dune from the night previous. Morning greetings bounced off his grumpy armor, the town folk accustomed by now to his frequent mood swings. Each long stride carried him closer to his goal, as if finding the hut would somehow invalidate his fears from another sleepless night.

Instead he found nothing. Looking anxiously around, he was certain this was the same spot that the well-made hut had stood only hours earlier. Desert winds had by now covered any sign of tracks, but standing in place, he knew he stood in the exact same place as the night before, witnessing the lover's tryst.

An hour passed, the images assailing his mind's eye. Panic crept upon him as he saw the entire episode again, sweaty limbs flailing and caressing, drenched in passionate sin. Part of him longed for those hungry kisses and deep embraces, but he pushed it down, stifled it as all leaders of men must, and began to scour the area.

Down on his knees, his palms pressed to the earth, he found what he thought to be his first clue. The dirt in the area was coarser, rougher than the rest of the sand in the vicinity. Particles of foreign matter were abundant, the faintest hint of moisture to it. Meticulously fanning the darker dirt in broad strokes, his delicate sifting finally paid off when he found the hard-drawn edges of a line. More than a line, he found as he brushed more of the dirt away: a circle.

--

He spent the rest of the morning in a haze, the outlines of a revelation on the tip of his brain. He had heard legends of alchemy, of course, whispered around the campfires of his village in his youth to the boorish proclamations of ambitious students in his university days, but never had he even once considered it to be a possibility.

And now he had witnessed it. He had heard Hohenheim say it, saw the remains of some cryptic circle, and now he realized that the fine hut he had seen had been somehow created by alchemy. But though he had seen much, he still had yet to see an actual transmutation take place.

A new goal in mind, he strode back into the village, his mind focused and direct. Without knowing it, he had come to Dante's hut, directly across from Hohenheim's. It was no secret amongst the townspeople that the two shared their bed, but the couple had kept up appearances to put the elders' minds at ease.

Little did these elders know of the more grievous sins committed by the couple, thought Gilvir ironically. The two would be most likely burned at the stake for such heresy, after long days of torture and abuse. He had seen it before, many years earlier, his friends and neighbors turning into feral monsters, ravenous for the blood of what he had previously thought to be their loved ones. He saw a boy hurl the first stone at his very own sister, starting the flood that left the girl broken and dead, her body riddled with bruises black as midnight and deep as darkness.

Without knocking he shoved open the front door, creaking on rusty hinges. Glancing around, he noticed that almost everything in the small space was second-hand; Dante was never one for glitz anyways. Tiptoeing to the back of the house, he found her bed empty, the sheets rustled and tossed about as if someone had slept in them. He ran an open hand along the smooth linen, feeling for a trace of warmth but finding none. And though he felt driven by upstanding moral principle, there was doubt in his heart, a feeling that he was invading her privacy.

"What are you doing," she said from behind him. He wheeled to face her, any guilt of his presence faded.

"Looking for you," he replied.

"In my bedroom? The people will talk, Gil," she said mockingly.

"And what will they say," he countered. "If they were to discover the truth of your presence here?"

"…I imagine they would be elated to know the reasons I am here with my people," she said carefully, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why do you ask that of me?"

"I ask because it is my responsibility as tribal chief," he answered. "But there is more to me than just my position, Dante. So much more then meets the eye…not so different from you, really."

"I do not understand you, Gil," she said slowly. "Have you been drinking?"

"Why, do I seem drunk? Perhaps I am, drunk on the possibilities that have opened before me…or should I say, us…"

"Us," she said skeptically. "We already went over this at the university Gil…I do not feel that way about you—"

"I speak not of love," he said haughtily. "But of…_power_."

"Power?"

"I saw you, Dante. I saw you and Hohenheim last night, performing your dark arts."

"You…saw…? You are mistaken, Gilvir, for—"

"It is useless to deny it, woman, for I know what I saw. And I saw…alchemy."

"Your false accusations endanger me, Gil, just as Hohenheim…"

"Oh, I do not plan on telling the people of the oasis about your little hobby…provided you give me what I want," he said gustily, his eyes taking her in.

"And what is that," she asked, nervous under his intent gaze.

"I want to know everything you know about this alchemy…"

"There is not much," she admitted reluctantly.

"Well, then I suppose if there is nothing to learn, the townsfolk will be eager to hear what I have discovered," he said, edging towards the door.

"No," she cried, stopping him quickly. "Please… I spoke too soon. There is much for me to teach, and you to learn."

"That is…exactly what I wanted to hear, my dear Dante," he whispered, lightly caressing her face with his fingers. "Perhaps…you will see me in a better light when we are through. There is no reason this should be an unpleasant experience for either of us."

She nodded deliberately, and when she met his gloating eyes, he could have sworn he saw something in those piercing jade orbs, something he had seen once long ago, as a boy in his old village, when brother turned against sister. It was murder.

--

Whatever qualms she had about teaching him the secret arts seemed to vanish as quickly as they began. Gilvir devoured the notes she gave to him, absorbing every line, every detail of the neatly scrawled formulas. Theory soon led to practice, and he found both to his liking. In only two weeks of study, he had surpassed what Dante and Hohenheim had done in an entire semester at the university. As quick a study as he was, Gil owed more of his success to Dante's fervent teachings, her anger giving way to guidance, a sort of parental pride taking its place.

Her work with Hohenheim began to suffer. Long hours of teaching replaced her research, Gilvir more demanding a student than Hohenheim as her partner. It seemed to her almost as if he relished the time alone, conducting their work on his own. A nagging concern began to hound her, worries from weeks ago crystallizing before her. She had seen his lust for power, seeking to ease his ambitions as best she could. Now, his research progressed unchecked, and a small part of her feared this fact. For hadn't she seen for herself the hunger in his eyes?

It was almost like the hunger she saw in Gilvir's eyes. Though their work had progressed rapidly, she still found him repugnant, the mere sight of him making her nearly retch. As days became weeks, he became bolder and bolder with his advances, brushing lightly against her hand one day, pressing against her back the next.

On a day so hot the sand steamed, he finally made his move. He grabbed at her without warning, pulling her towards his slobbering mouth with stubby fingers. His greasy beard scratched her face as he hungrily sought her lips, ignoring her attempts to slip out of his clutches. Finally freeing her hands, she shoved him back before slapping him across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor.

"Don't ever touch me again," she seethed through clenched teeth.

"I must—nay, I _will_ have you, Dante," he panted as he rose to his knees. From his position, he blocked the only exit from the remote hut, and he knew it, taking his time getting to his feet.

"Again, I am not interested, Gil," she said clearly, but she could see that no words would dissuade him. He had been blinded by lust, and she knew that men were only a danger in that situation. Knowing she had to get out of there, and quickly, she made a dash for the door, hoping to slip past his clumsy grasp.

But as she twisted away from his arm tackle, she felt her feet tangle in his other arm before he wrapped both around her thin waist, bringing her roughly to the floor. Dust rose to her nostrils for a moment before he suddenly flipped her over and sat on her stomach. Her muscles cringed under the massive weight, and she gasped for air as he pinned her hands down. She could feel his interest between his legs, the silent bulge in his tunic speaking volumes. Panting, he held her wrists in place as he worked at his belt, eager to show her his interest.

Understanding his intentions fully now, she twisted desperately from his grasp, clawing at his face with talon-like fingers. Squealing in pain, he loosed his grip for just a moment, barely enough to let her wriggle away. But before she could take another step, he was upon her again, this time from behind. She turned to look back at him, and felt the hard cuff of his hand on her cheek, the pain stinging. The next thing she felt was his hand against the back of her head, shoving her face viciously into the ground.

He ripped the tunic from her body with reckless abandon, with neither delicacy nor tenderness. His ample belly pressing against her back, she felt his clammy sweat on her body as he forced her legs apart with a grunt.

"Do not do this," she begged, coughing in the dirt. "Please…"

"I love you, Dante," he whispered hotly in her ear, kissing the back of her neck and shoulders.

"Then do not—"

But it was too late; her cries were hollow and distant in the night, lost in the howl of the cruel desert wind.

--

After the heinous deed was done, he stood over her, his face expressionless. She lay there, cuts scattered across her skin, the sand and sweat congealing to a muddy paste on her naked body. Her eyes were void of emotion, save a single tear trickling down her finely shaped cheek, the faint outline of a bruise forming where his fist met it.

"I meant what I said," he finally spoke. "I love you, Dante."

But she only stared through him with those vacant eyes, accusing and brilliant in their clarity. Part of him felt shame at his betrayal, but a bigger part of him accepted what he had done, as men of his tribe had done for centuries, and would continue to do for years to come. In fact, by the ancient cultural traditions of his people, Dante would now be considered his property, she having no say in the matter.

"I do not think we need to tell Hohenheim about this, either," he said, showing no hint of apprehension. "There is no need for him to know about us."

Dante rose at his words, wrapping herself gingerly in the tattered remains of her tunic.

"What will the people say," she said in a half-daze.

"…About what?"

"About you, our honorable tribal chief, studying the dark arts, and forcing it upon me?"

"_Forcing_ it…? _You_ were the one to show _me_!"

"There is little doubt I would be freed," she said quietly. "After all, our laws dictate that I am now your property; and property cannot think for itself. I was therefore an unwilling pawn in your pursuit of the dark arts."

"No one will take your word over mine," he said angrily.

"Won't they," she scoffed, finding courage in her words. "Are there not men amongst the village eager for your position? Have they not sought your downfall? Men such as they, power hungry men, will gladly forgive me for what I can provide them."

"You would not dare…"

"Try me, fool," she spat boldly. "You are scum, Gilvir, just as you always were. You are a pox upon our people, a pathetic wretch jeered at by every child in the oasis. Now that you know it was Hohenheim and I that performed the miracles, you must acknowledge how little of the town's success ever came from you. This town has become a haven despite your best efforts, and worse for you…everyone knows this."

His anger boiling, he raised his hand to strike her, halting. Her eyes, defiant and spiteful, shamed him, and her words rang true in his heart.

"You cannot touch me again. You would not dare kill me either, for Hohenheim would avenge me."

"What could he do to me?"

"His knowledge dwarfs mine, nearly as much as mine dwarfs yours, bastard. He could turn your bones to glass, your fat flesh to dust."

"…What do you want," he asked, defeated. "What do you want of me?"

"I want you to disappear from the oasis and my life," she said. "I always considered myself a better person than you, Gil, and thus I will spare you the humiliation you heaped upon me…be grateful this is all I ask of you, for you know the grim fate you would have faced had you chose to oppose my will."

"You…you…"

"I may have lost my dignity, my pride and honor as a woman…but it is a small price to see an empty space where you once stood."

Gil turned away from her in the small hut, pausing for a scant moment before disappearing wordlessly through the door into thick daylight. And though she had found some meaning in equivalence, her proud façade crumbled when he left, and she collapsed, weeping bitter, lonely tears.

--

The sun was preparing its daily descent when she finally reached town again, her body sore and her heart heavy. Ragged weeds blew past her; someone's pitiful attempt at a garden had inevitably failed yet again. Children frolicked in the dusty road, and she envied their ease of laughter, their innocence. Reaching her door, she saw Hohenheim pacing nervously at the front of her home. He ran over when he saw her.

"Dante," he panted. "You—we…have been…robbed!"

"What?"

"Your home…it is in disarray, the books and notes stolen!"

"But who would…?" And she knew, in that moment, exactly who would steal from her, who valued those books.

"If the thief realizes what those books and notes are, we might be in some…ah, trouble around here," said Hohenheim. "Wouldn't you say?"

"There is nothing to connect us to the books," she said calmly, her thoughts racing.

"But the thief might get an idea, start following us around. Then…then he would have his proof."

"The thief…it was Gilvir," she admitted. "He has been hounding me these past weeks to give him a taste of alchemy."

"Gil? What interest would he have in alchemy? Or is it…" his last words trailed off, and he looked at Dante suspiciously.

"He sought to vindicate himself, assuage his hurt pride, advance his people's progress," she replied tiredly. "Nothing else."

"And the bruise on your cheek…? The one you tried in vain to cover with dirt?"

"I refused to…show him any more alchemy. He—"

"I will kill him," whispered her lover hotly. "I will send that fat bastard to hell myself."

"He…is gone, Hohenheim," she said quietly. "He fled from the oasis when he realized I would show him no more, and that he had become a pariah amongst his one-time followers."

He nodded slightly, but she could feel the anger seething within him, see it in his distant gaze. Reaching out for her, eager to take her into his arms and comfort her, she recoiled from his touch, so abruptly that it surprised them both.

"I…am sorry," she apologized. "I am too tired for this tonight, Hohenheim. Our discussion will have to wait till the morrow."

"But I have so much to tell you, I—"

"Tomorrow," she insisted, walking slowly into her dwelling. From the scattered knickknacks and overturned bookcases, she could see that the thief had come specifically for the journals, and their valuable research. She picked up an empty binder after closing the door behind her.

Opening to a blank page, she began to rewrite everything from the beginning. Luckily for her, she had already committed every word in those dusty tomes to memory long ago.

--

He fumed. His hands became claws, the fingers reflexively hooking and tightening around air. Oh, how he longed to have his old college classmate's neck between those fingers. Whatever weight advantage Gil had on him, Hohenheim could crush his windpipe with only a moment's opportunity.

Never in his life had he wanted to strike a woman, especially not one he professed to care about, one who shared a common heritage. True, Dante had often gone out of her way to test those principles on violence, but never had he once given in to the rage no matter how skilled she was at pushing his buttons.

His work had halted. Part of him wished it was the incoherent anger he felt, but he knew that was only a small bit of the truth. This experiment was the one boundary Dante had warned him never to cross.

It was an ordinary thing, really, an apple sitting in the center of a round wooden table. A rotten apple, actually, brought in from the city orchards far to the west. It was no wonder the apple had gone rotten in its long travels, but it had still fetched a high price at the market because of its rarity.

He rubbed white dusted chalk from his fingertips. Never having attempted a transmutation on organic matter, the implications of this experiment would reverberate for the rest of his career as an alchemist. It was no wonder, then, that he was more nervous than ever before.

It had only been a day since the tribal elders officially announced Gilvir's disappearance, two days after everyone in the village with eyes and ears already knew. In that time, Dante had refused to leave her hut, refused to speak with or see anyone. Given no say in the matter, Hohenheim resigned himself to his work, finding a renewed dedication that he had believed himself to be previously lacking.

The preparations complete, he stared long and hard at the computations, the precise calculations and notes he had written onto the massive slate chalkboard. He had worn dozens of chalk pieces to nothing, only one nub left. No more excuses, he thought. With this last piece, he completed the transmutation circle on the scarred wooden table.

He heard Dante's warnings once more, saw her worried eyes as if she were standing beside him. But there was no one there. She had locked herself away, frightened by the power waiting to be taken by those with the courage to grab it. It was all up to him now.

Closing his eyes, he brought his hands to the table.

--

Later. A voice in the darkness.

"Dante," it whispered softly.

Woken suddenly from her slumber, Dante pulled her blanket closer, instinctively moving away from the large shadow seated on her bed.

"What do you want? How did you get in her?" Her voice on the edge of panic, the only thing stopping her from screaming was the nagging thought that this intruder was all part of some vivid dream.

"Relax," he said soothingly, and she knew instantly who it was.

"How did you get in here, Hohenheim? What time is it?"

"The witching hour," he said somberly. "It is late, and…getting through a door or wall is child's play for us now."

"Even still…I am not ready to go back," she said wistfully. "I am not sure I can do it anymore, Hohenheim."

"I know," he said. "I am not here to convince you otherwise."

"Then why _are_ you here?"

"Come," he said, rising slowly from the bed. Even in the darkness, she could make out his hand extended to her. "And I will show you."

Sighing, she took his hand, and he guided her silently to the door before placing a thick shawl around her shivering shoulders.

"Mystery does not suit you, Hohenheim," she whispered grumpily as they exited the house. The road was empty, as was to be expected for the late hour, but the moon was extraordinarily bright, illuminating the entire area with pale white light.

"It is up ahead," he said, trying to ease the tension he felt in her hand. This was the first time in weeks that she even let him touch her. "Cover your eyes," he added.

Begrudgingly, she obeyed, glancing at him warily.

"This better be worth it," she grumbled as they walked.

"Oh, it is, my love…it is."

She felt him come up behind her, and for a moment she felt intense, stabbing fear, but when his strong hands gently touched hers to pull them aside, she gasped in amazement.

Before her lay row upon row of tall, verdant greens bearing crimson red apples in their lofty boughs, enough to be considered an orchard. The shine of the moon's light almost shimmered on those perfectly symmetrical leaves, and Dante knew immediately, that in all her life, she had never seen anything so wonderful, so beautiful.

"It is…amazing…! H-how did you…?"

"The seeds of the apple gave me everything I needed to create this. It took a lot of work, but I found that organic matter was no different from inorganic, once you compensated for the right elements…"

"You are a genius, Hohenheim," she said, looking up to him, his face etched in a slice of pale moonlight. "You have created a food source for the people, from nothing."

"Let us not jump to conclusions yet," he replied modestly. "While the research is for everyone, this orchard is for you, Dante, and only you."

"But…why? I—"

"It was on this day we met, Dante, so many years ago," he answered. "For so long, even when we were apart, you were with me, guiding me, giving me strength when I thought I had none. My ambition, my goals…all were meaningless, directionless, until you came into my life. I love you, Dante, as I have always loved you…"

As he spoke, he knelt to the ground, revealing another transmutation circle drawn neatly in the sand. Pressing it, the air around them glowed brilliantly for a moment, when she saw the sparkling ring in his outstretched palm.

"Dante," he said, taking her hand. "Marry me."

--

He felt before he saw her hand pull away to drop by her side. Confusion filled her eyes, a longing, sad doubt written across her otherwise beautiful face.

"I…cannot, Hohenheim," she replied, her eyes dropping. A long silence followed her words.

"Do you love him," he asked, getting slowly to his feet.

"Who?"

"Gilvir, of course," he said. "Despite all the work I put into this orchard, this ring…I still hear the gossip and rumors about you two. The people say he loves you; I saw it for myself, too, years ago at the university, but until now I never thought you could love another…"

"I could never love that flabby snake of a bastard," she hissed. "But…I cannot give you what you need now, Hohenheim. I cannot explain, I cannot hope for you to understand…all I can ask is you forgive me, for I cannot accept your proposal now."

"Very well," he sighed. "Perhaps another day," he said with a hollow smile.

"Perhaps," she said, shivering in the cold night air.

"I should walk you back now."

"No…no, thank you," she said quietly. "I would prefer to be alone."

"Very well," he repeated, watching her disappear from their patch of moonlight. "Farewell, my love," he said wistfully.

He leaned against the wide trunk of the central tree, looking up at the starry sky shaded by the leaves of his creation. A dangling piece of perfectly red fruit caught his eye, and he plucked it nimbly from the branch. But biting into the seemingly ripe apple, he spat it out, finding that it had no taste, no taste at all.

--

Clouds rumbled far off in the distance. Flashes of hot white light flickered in the thick, rolling clouds, and the villagers prepared for the impending rain. The air was dry, humid as was usually the case with a desert clime, but there was something strange in the air that day. Something that hinted of fate, wasted on the tiny speck of man.

Rumors swirled as much as the clouds in the sky, nasty spirited gossip of the pale foreigner so jealous of his romantic rival that he would resort to murder to assure his place in his lover's sinful bed. There were few places Hohenheim could walk freely without feeling the stares of the townspeople on his back, and fewer times he could block out their malicious whispers. For hadn't he murdered a man of God, to secure a life of lust?

The only thing saving him from a tribunal was the epidemic that had seemingly appeared from nowhere overnight. Children all around the village were falling ill, and Hohenheim's medical expertise was necessary, if not appreciated. It was only under these circumstances that he was welcomed into his neighbors' homes, he noted, but any bitterness of this fact disappeared when at the bedside of a sick child.

Nearly a dozen children from his area had been stricken by the sickness, the parents' marathon efforts of prayer bearing no fruit. None of the children were talking, but Hohenheim knew from watching that these children all played together. The sickness seemed to originate from their stomachs, but if that were the case, a virus should not have passed between them. Dante, on her own, had tended to many of the children using the traditional techniques of her people, but the effects soon faded, leaving little alternative to worried parents. Hohenheim longed to talk to her again, to find out her thoughts on the illness, but he knew she wanted more than anything to be left alone, which he had no choice but to respect.

"Is there anything else we can do," asked the mother of the sick boy, powerless to help as her son groaned miserably in his bed.

"Has he eaten anything unusual in the past few days?"

The mother thought over his question with disdain. "No, I have fed him only good foods, like all my children."

"I meant no offense, ma'am," he said politely, but could see he had already offended her deeply. "Annan, is there anything you can tell me? Did you and your friends drink water from a certain place, or share something?"

The boy shook his head firmly, but something in his eyes betrayed the truth.

"Annan…there is a sickness spreading over the village. I know you do not want other kids to get sick; so many of them look up to you already. You cannot let them down," said Hohenheim, trying to guilt the boy into action. Then he thought of something that was sure to work, something he had seen for himself over the months. "Your friend, Katha…she has fallen ill too, Annan. Will you let her suffer needlessly, the one you care so much about?"

The boy seemed tormented by the prospect, trying his best to look away. But when he looked back, there was a certainty in his eyes, a confidence that he was doing the right thing.

"Your apple orchard…we found it two days ago," confessed the boy. "We all ate the fruit…and though it tasted bad, we ate as much as we could."

"Annan," said his mother, shocked. "Why would you do that to his orchard," she asked, before thinking of something and turning to Hohenheim. "And how did you raise an entire apple orchard in this season?"

"We saw him do it," said the boy. "He touched the earth, and trees rose from the soil, higher than we could have imagined!"

"Black…magic," gasped the woman, stumbling back through the doorway. "Get away from my son, devil worshipper," she yelled, leaping forward to shield her child.

"How many others ate from the trees, Annan," asked Hohenheim, unflustered by the dramatic turn, focusing on the more important details. "How many?"

"Help," screamed the mother, carrying her son to the front door. "Help us, someone!"

"I know not," said the boy. "At least fifteen of us, maybe more…"

"Look what your demon's magic has done to our village," cried the mother hysterically. "You have brought a pox upon our household!"

Hearing the rush of footsteps outside, Hohenheim knew none would listen to reason, even give him a chance to speak. With a piece of blue tinted chalk pulled from the boy's toy box, he hurriedly drew a circle on the wall, transmuting a window to escape through.

Behind him, he heard the slam of the door, the pursuit of angry men. Above him, the sky suddenly opened, loosing its rain and thunder upon the world.

--

Hours later, across the oasis, a crowd gathered at another door, making no secret of their wishes, nor hiding their discomfort in the pouring rain.

"Burn it down! Burn it down!"

"We cannot burn it down, fool! It is raining!"

"Tear it open then! Hang the devil worshippers!"

"People, people," urged one of the elders. "We are a civilized lot, no matter what others may call us under their breaths," he said, striding to the front door. Without being asked, two large men followed obediently at his heels, ready for trouble.

The first knock was ignored. The second, louder one, seemed to rouse whoever was on the other side of the door. Cracking ever so slightly, a sleepy green eye took in the elder.

"What is it, elder Ritu," asked Dante, yawning.

"Will you open your door, sister Dante," asked Ritu. "There have been accusations made against you…"

"Accusations? Of what?"

"Witchcraft," he answered solemnly.

She chuckled before sighing. "If you insist," she said, opening the door and stepping back. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, the cool air of the evening showers following the men.

Ritu signaled to the men to wait, before stepping into the small hut and closing the door behind him. He sat in a worn chair, its original color long lost.

"Who has made these accusations," she asked, pouring him some tea.

"Hohenheim was seen practicing forbidden magic, Dante, by several witnesses."

"…Hohenheim? What does he have to do with this?"

"Everything. It was his dark magic that brought the recent illness upon our children."

"He would never do such a thing."

"He has a good heart," agreed Ritu. "But whatever his original intentions, his actions have put this entire village at risk."

"By doing what, exactly?"

"The apple orchard. I am sure you knew about it, so do not bother denying it."

"…Where is he?"

"We were hoping you could tell us…he fled after he was discovered, and he vanished completely by the jeweled ridges of the peak."

"I have no idea where he is."

"Dante," began the old man. "I have come to respect what the two of you have done for us, what your mother and her mother did for our people. I did my best to calm the other elders when they came to learn of whom you shared your bed with, whom you chose to love. Times have changed, the world with it. But I am not so old that you cannot confide in me."

"I honestly do not know where he is."

"I suspected as much," he nodded. "Hohenheim loves you too much to put you at risk."

"Then why did you come here, knowing he would not be here?"

"Our people are a superstitious, and thorough, lot. They will demand to search your home for forbidden books of lore. If there is anything for them to find, tell me now, and I shall do everything in my power to protect you."

"That is…kind of you, elder Ritu, but there is nothing to the charges. I am but a simple faith healer."

"Modesty never did suit you, Dante," sighed the old man, rising to his feet. "It was not so long ago that our very faith was considered heresy, nor so long ago we killed ourselves over differing beliefs. I pray that your forbidden science is tended by those with hearts and consciences. Your place in the world is waiting for you, child. We anxiously await the day you find it."

"My place is here, amongst my people…is it not?"

"Nay, you have lost your place here, Dante," he said gently. "The mark of the black sign has fallen upon your door; you shall forever by tainted by suspicion. No matter the good that I, and others, know you are capable of, anything you do will be viewed now with nothing but scorn."

"Are you saying I must go?"

"It is not my place, even as a village elder, to cast you or anyone else out. But I have come to care for you, child, as you have come to care for the children of our village, and I wish you only the best in your coming trials. Leave…and soon, but go with the grace of God, to use your alchemy to aid mankind."

"…I have no idea what you speak of, elder."

"Of course you do not," smiled the old man. "And that is why you shall succeed."

--

Days later, when they were done with the inquiry and she was alone, she sat in that same worn chair, surrounded by her possessions strewn recklessly about. Though she owned very little, it appeared to be so much more spread across the floor.

Satisfied that they were all done and gone, she began to clean, piling the frivolous decorations of her home into a messy heap, separating from the things she would need on her new path. There wasn't much, but it would have to do.

The elder had been right about her neighbors. She was nothing now but a monster to them, a monster to protect their children from. There was never an outspoken threat of violence, but Dante knew that once elder Ritu passed on, there would be little to stop them from stoning her in the streets or burning her at the stake. There would be no trial, no one to come to her defense.

Another day of work and she was ready to leave her life behind. It was strange to stand in one of the few places she called home and see it empty. There was no warmth, no sign of anyone having even lived there. It was simply a structure, with doors and windows that let small snippets of the world in, never enough to stem the flow of time.

A knock at her door. Since the accusations began, she had installed a deadbolt into the door, reinforcing the wood frame with strips of metal she scrounged up. She had longed to use alchemy to complete the menial tasks, but knew that she was being watched.

From her window she could see no one at the door, and this fact only worried her more. If the other villagers suspected that she was going to leave, they might panic and make a last ditch effort to finish her…

But she had found some of her lost courage these last few days, the kind words of the elder reminding her of the responsibility she had burdened herself with not so long ago. And so, pulling the door open slowly, she peered out into the empty road. No one.

Turning back, she felt something tingle along the back of her neck. It was an intuition, not one strictly reserved for the fairer sex, but a mysterious human knowledge that there was something important for her to see in that moment.

She saw it when she turned back, sitting silently on her doorstep. It was a small box, no larger than a clenched fist, wrapped in a brightly colored paper. Looking up and down the road, she saw no one, sensed no one watching. Quickly she snatched up the box, shutting the door and slamming the deadbolt into place.

Her heart racing, she took a deep breath before carefully unraveling the exotic paper. Tearing open the top of the box, she found a small, glass bottle within it. A light purple fluid swirled thickly within it as she held it up to the light. Turning it over in her hands, she found a small, handwritten note beneath it. She recognized the handwriting immediately and nearly dropped the bottle in surprise.

He had done it, she thought, uncorking the bottle. A sweetly, almost nectar-like fragrance escaped, assailing her senses, nearly overpowering them with the sheer delight of its botanical blend of scents. He had made a fine perfume; he had made it, and given it smell.

--

It would never stop, she realized. The research could never come to a stop, not after they had already come so far. Lost in her misery, her self-loathing and self-blame, she had nearly given up the most important things in her life without knowing it. The old Dante, the strong Dante, would never have allowed such a thing befall her.

The time had come to forgive herself, to go out and find her place in a world so crazy and dangerous. Also included in the box, she found a piece of chalk. Shaking it into her hand, she nervously drew a circle on her wall, the rhythm coming back to her in scarcely an instant. She hesitated for a breath as she put her hands to the wall, and it began to bend and open, revealing a thick journal hidden within it. Sliding it quickly into her bag, she disappeared into the desert winds.

* * *


	5. Interlude

_**Interlude 1**_

Campfires burned brightly against a jet-black sky, murky clouds masking the stars overhead. Looming towers of coal gray smoke billowed, unmoved by the calm desert wind. Some would call the night unseasonably gentle, but the cool night held other dangers not so distant.

The Zuagirs, as they were referred to in the language of the desert nomads, were considered the preeminent marauders of the region. Formed of cutthroats from a hundred different tribes, the only common thread between them was a lust for pillaging and raping. The band had started out small, formed by the famous outlaw brothers, the Shyudars, in a remote mountain village far to the east. Exceptional sword work was a plus, but the simple will to kill was always preferred. Men without compunctions, without consciences, without principles all flocked to join this dangerous band, dreaming dark, bloody dreams of conquest and murder.

The slave pens were quieted for the night, the bandits done ravishing the new women from their last plundered village. Whimpers and cries had long faded into the night, for fear of more whippings and beatings. A few of the children were allowed to work the night as servants, carrying and feeding the higher ups of the bandit party. As a display of merciless cunning, the bandits beheaded a stubborn young boy as a warning to any of those foolish enough to attempt slipping away into the night.

The marauders had been busy over the past weeks, looting and burning over a dozen small villages in their long march. But still they progressed unchecked, hungrily eyeing the villages and towns to the west. Some had even whispered of the legendary oasis, with a mountain of jewels enough to buy a kingdom.

Drunken carousing went well into the night, as it usually did, the boisterous bellows of hard, cruel men rising and falling with the evening dusk. Fights were not uncommon during the nights, from the petty to the extreme, and these fights would always end the same way: with bloodied blades. But on this particular night, the men were calm, sated by gorged feasting and guzzled wines.

The peace would not last.

From the south rose a dark wind, gusting with enough force to tear heavy camel-skin covers from wooden tent poles, strong enough to rustle the bandits from drunken slumber. The animals grew restless, pulling at their tethers, whining weakly when they realized they were trapped. The posted guards shivered, but a cold desert wind was hardly enough cause to sound the alarm. It was, after all, part of the Lost Dunes, an area forsaken by even the hardiest of nomads; hot enough to cook through an animal carcass by day, frigid enough to frostbite a full-grown man by night.

The guard to the south, a seasoned fighting man by the name of Amir, continued his patrol, stopping only when he saw the faint outline of a shadow moving towards him from the open plain. The thin shadow made no move for stealth or secrecy, and Amir suspected that it was a wild animal attracted by the dying fires and smell of cooked meat. But when the shadow was only a dozen yards away from him, Amir could see it was a man, clearly a nomad but not a fighter.

"What do you seek," asked Amir loudly, his voice summoning the guards from other directions.

"I seek shelter," said the man meekly, kneeling to the sand to submit. "And to join your noble cause."

"We have no cause, save plunder and luxury! To live in the opulence and wealth fit for a king!"

"I know," said the gaunt man, looking up. "But a worm dressed in the silks of a king is still a worm…until the day he dies."

"You—" yelled Amir, drawing his curved sword. "You will die here!"

"You steal our land, our water, our families," seethed the man, bringing his hands to the sand. "And now you steal my words…unforgivable," he added, shaking his head.

The soldier leapt forward with his blade at the ready, when the sand around him began to glow. Before he could take another step, he felt the ground beneath him disappear, falling into the void, where sand rained down upon him, filling his mouth and lungs with the dry, coarse substance.

The other guards had by now arrived on the scene, recoiling from the sight of their comrade drowning in sand. The first to step bravely forward joined Amir miles beneath the earth, causing the others to turn and flee, screaming for their gods to save them.

Lanterns flickered to life in tents, and the man smiled wanly. He drew another circle into the sand before touching it, and the entire camp erupted in a fireball; tents poured out choking black smoke, lanterns spitting burning oil in every direction. Men screamed for water, and when they reached the reserves, they found only empty barrels.

The man smiled again, pleased by the destruction unfolding before him. With another circle, he destroyed the holding pens for the animals, as well as the slaves. Lost in a panic, slave and animal both debated whether an escape attempt was worth their lives. After brief moments of hesitation, they were soon gone, scampering over the nearest sand dune in pursuit of freedom.

Some of the marauders saw this, grabbing at their swords to give chase, when a wall suddenly rose before them from the ground, strong enough to repel their thrusts and high enough to deny climbing.

"What is this black magic," screamed one of the bandits, seeing identical walls rise in every direction. Before the band could form a defensive position, they were fenced in by those sandy walls.

"It is no magic," said a calm voice above them. Sitting atop one of the walls was the darkly robed man from earlier. "I would advise against doing that," he said, addressing the bandits notching arrows to their bows.

"Prepare to fire," ordered their captain, his clothes and hair singed by an earlier fire.

"I warned you," said the man, touching his skeletal hand to the top of the wall. A moment later, the sand beneath the men began to blister and smoke, as if the very ground were boiling. Men began to scream, their feet still bare from sleep. Even those lucky enough to have on their boots felt the scorching heat, felt the skin of their heels melt away.

"Stop, then, we surrender," pleaded the men, tiring from hopping foot to foot. "What are your conditions? What do you want?"

"We do not surrender so easily," boomed a voice from the back. A massive man stepped forward, his body drenched in blood, and the masses parted way for the last remaining Shyudar brother, arguably the strongest of the family.

"Curse your pride, Kimir, we are finished in here," begged one of his captains.

"Grit your teeth and bear it," ordered Kimir. "We are the Zuagirs, the wolves of the desert! We will bow to no man, and die on our feet!"

"You will die here; slowly, and painfully," said the hooded man menacingly.

"We will fight you! We will—"

Whatever words Kimir had planned to rally or inspire his men with, they died on his lips, the biting tip of a thin dagger pierced through his heart. His captain dug the blade in deeply, twisting and pushing it to ensure his former leader's demise.

"You always were a stubborn fool, Kimir," said the captain scornfully, wiping the blood from his blade. "We will do as we always have: betray and kill to survive. Wolves…? Hah! We are the vipers of the desert, snakes without scales…but fangs still, eh?"

"Here, here, Jabal!" cried his supporters, men desperate to escape their newfound prison. Their new leader turned to the man atop the prison's wall.

"So, hooded stranger, now that a man smart enough to negotiate is in charge, tell me what it is you desire, and you shall have it, or I am not Jabal Srag, raider of kingdoms."

"Yes, we have gold! And jewels!

"Camels and women!"

"Anything you desire!"

"We have everything to give!"

"You have nothing," spat the man. "I have seen to that; neither water nor food, nor animal or slave. I have left to you only your material wealth. See how desirable a gold gilded goblet is when there is neither water nor wine to drink from it."

"Be not so hasty, friend," said Jabal, panic beginning to settle in, but hiding it as best he could. "We are both intelligent men, are we not? Wasting a potential army of men seems rather…foolish, does it not?"

"Jabal Srag, was it," asked the stranger. "I remember you. It was but five winters ago that you stole my wife from our fields, to ravage and enslave, to beat and mistreat."

"I have never sold a slave nor forced myself upon a woman," lied Jabal. For he had done both that very night.

"Lie if you must," said the masked man, rising to his feet. "Her name was Chela, Jabal, and you killed her; perhaps you did not run her through with your bloody dagger, but you slew her all the same. You destroyed her will to live, taking away her very humanity. And now…now I, Gilvir of the Vendyan tribe, do the same to you and your followers," he said slowly, looking distantly to the east. "The sun will rise in an hour, and you will know then what it means to suffer. And what it means to die like a worm," he said, nodding. "Dig, if you can, burrowing under the rocky walls I have erected around you. Walk, if you can, to catch the caravan a hundred miles ahead of you. Survive, if you can, without water, without supplies for these coming weeks. Live, if you must, for I will again find you and leave you to your death as many times as I must. Farewell, Jabal, and know that you suffer for the rest of your pitiful existence because of my revenge."

And with that, he was gone, leaving the raiders to their fate.

--

The feeling hadn't gone away. He had waited for that moment for years, savoring the imagined look of terror on the face of his hated enemy, tasting his fear. It had been exquisite in his mind, beautiful in its terrible ferocity and poetic in its justice. Men such as they deserved grave fates. Hadn't the fundamental law of alchemy, scribbled constantly through Dante's notes, justified his actions?

Equivalence. It had haunted him these past, lonely years. He had thought of it first as a karmic balance, the universe evening out the good and evil of the world. But he had since learned that it wasn't so simple, that loss and gain couldn't be pigeonholed into neatly distinct categories. What he had done to Dante…he knew now that he had been wrong, overcome with the sin of lust, but in his mind, he had gained from that mistake, at the cost of her trust. He had learned the true way of the alchemist.

And now he had used that power to kill, to murder. Whatever calling he had found in alchemy, Gilvir remained foremost a man of faith; a man who, more than anything, believed in God. He had been raised to believe that it was God who would mete out justice, that it was God alone who could judge the actions of his creations. Man, for all his great achievements, would always be flawed, and never be able to judge beyond his own experiences. But oh, how he had quivered when he saw Jabal weep tears of bitter frustration!

His thoughts wandered to Chela, the night of their wedding, her off-center smile so warm, so loving. They hardly knew each other, yet she loved him so easily, dedicating her every breath to him. It was that more than anything else that helped him rise to the position of tribal chief; for what was a man's ambition without a good woman to fuel it? In his mind, her sweet smile faded when she learned of his path to vengeance, the loss and sacrifice along the way. Her loving touch cooled, her eyes fallen with disappointment.

"I am sorry, Chela," he wept, dropping to his knees, burying his face in his hands. "Please…forgive me…"

But no matter how impassioned his cries for forgiveness, they were met only with the cold silence of the desert plains.

--  
_Note: The term "Zuagirs" comes from one of my favorite writers, Robert E. Howard, and his Conan series. The Zuagirs were desert nomads, and a band of honorable soldiers eventually led by a young Conan. I like the word, personally. I realize I kind of gave Gilvir a ton of power, but I figure it's kind of cool to see a guy driven insane by revenge cut loose once in awhile._


	6. Forging the Stone

_Note: Turns out this site was wrong, not me. The correct spelling is Hohenheim, not Hoenheim, as it is listed here. I decided to go with the anime's spelling, since this story is based on that particular universe. So please ignore previous spellings of the name._

**Chapter Five: Forging the Stone (part one)**

The patter of sandaled feet on cobblestone quickened, echoing from every direction. He had thought he knew every road, every corner, every alley of the township, but his pursuers seemed equally adept in their knowledge. Backing into a corner, he sensed impending confrontation, and he was not yet ready for that. Hurriedly drawing a small circle on the wall at his back, it reshaped to his will, leaving an opening wide enough for his rail-thin body to squeeze through. Another circle on the other side and he would seemingly vanish into thin air.

But as he began to draw the second circle with his chalk, a large hand shot through the opening, grabbing his wrist roughly.

"I have him! He is here," yelled the voice attached to the hand.

Twisting away, he punched desperately at the wrist and elbow of his unknown assailant. Finally breaking free, he wheeled away and ran from the dark alley into the sunny streets. It was not uncommon in those times to hear yells and see chases in that section of town, so it was no surprise he received barely a second glance from those bystanders walking the streets.

But one man seemed to intently eye this mysterious figure from afar. Something that seemed too familiar to forget, far too important to abandon. And so this mysterious stranger began to follow the man as he tried his best to casually stroll down the street.

The pursuers, meanwhile, had looped around and reunited on the corner, cursing each other for letting him slip through their fingers yet again.

"Are you certain it was him?"

"Of course," grunted his companion. "I saw him open that wall with but a touch of his hand."

"Then his accusers were speaking the truth," nodded one solemn man, who appeared to be their leader. "He will likely try to blend in with the crowd to escape us; you four take the northern route, the rest of us will take the southern," he ordered. "Go!"

And so the group of dark skinned men broke apart, scattering in packs to hungrily scour the streets for him. They would not stop, he realized, watching them from a window above. The side door to the building had slid open so easily, he could not resist taking refuge in the second floor. But in doing so, he put whoever owned the building at equal risk, and solely for his gain. Witchcraft was, like it always had been, a crime punishable by death.

--

They caught up to him three hours later. He was trying unsuccessfully to purchase a horse with a large brick of gold, one he had transmuted from lead. But in doing so, he had raised suspicion in the horse trader's mind. After all, who would trade such a large piece of gold for a horse? With such wealth, one could buy an entire stable of horses.

"Do you know who I am," fumed the man, still trying to shove the gold at the trader.

"No, nor do I care," said the trader. "Fool's gold is fool's gold, no matter who's hand it rests in."

"This is real, I assure you."

"Assurances from a man I never met? Who keeps his face clouded in a hood? I say nay, stranger…nay."

"You are making a grave mistake. I am Gil—"

Before he could completely identify himself, a group of men stormed into the dingy stable, blocking every exit. A score of them leapt forward, grabbing at the hooded man's arms. The gold block dropped to the ground with a loud thud.

"Keep his arms pinned down!"

"I am trying…but he keeps biting me!"

The next thing he saw was the clenched knuckles of a fist as it collided with his face. His senses swirled, his vision swam. A familiar face looked down at him, more wrinkled than he remembered.

"It has been a long time, old friend…"

"Damn you, Ritu! _I _built this town," spat Gil, thrashing wildly against the men's clutches. "I am Gilvir! Everything you have is thanks to _me_!"

"You overstepped your bounds long ago, my friend," said the old man gently before turning away. "Your students are waiting for you."

--

The trial had been the talk of the region for the past weeks, spreading far and wide to any of those with ears to listen. Fourteen people of the township had been accused of heresy, specifically the crime of practicing witchcraft. However, only thirteen had remained in custody. Until today. Number fourteen, the supposed ringleader of it all, lay against the wall of his corner cell, his head hung low.

Awaiting trial by tribunal, there was little doubt to the outcome. Eager townsfolk had already begun the preparations for the mass pyre, ordering massive stakes to bind the guilty, and carefully rationing the fuel to burn at their feet. They were, after all, a sensible lot, and prudent in their craft.

Hangings had been given some thought as well, as well as beheadings, but the general beliefs of the people held that black magic could overcome something so minor as a broken neck or decapitation. This was a black magic spawned by fornicating with the devil himself, after all.

Stoning also had been considered, but in those days the process was immediately followed by immolation anyways, so it was more efficient to skip the rock hurling and proceed directly to the best part. To spare the audience soreness of limbs and reward them with the flash of something so brilliant was simply a win-win situation for all.

Few sympathized with the accused; none came to their defense. The talk around the area seemed to spread like wildfire, and those few with sympathy in their hearts knew better than to express such thoughts. To sympathize with evil was to become evil, so said the leaders.

But there were still those that knew the whole truth. Those that heard tales of black magic and recognized the secret alchemy for what it truly was. Enlightenment had come to a select few, and those with the gift were careful enough to conceal the truth. The dark ages were not so easily forgotten.

Nor were old ties; those forces behind the discovery of alchemy slowly began to gather once again…

--

The cellar was dank, deep. Moisture clung to the pavement at its lowest rung, peaking thin and high like an exaggerated king's crown. Cracked floorboards overhead let in the only light in faint drizzles. He held up his hand, open, catching wisps of floating dust.

"Is there not anyone out there sympathetic with us," wailed a young woman. She had been his first student; slow at first, her alchemic potential paled in comparison to her dedication and loyalty. She had been the one to cover his escape, and been herself caught in the process.

"No, Mita," replied Gilvir from his cell. "I found none wherever I sought."

"Master," said a middle-aged man. "How far did you get beyond the city limits?"

"I nearly caught sight of them," smiled his mentor weakly. "Ritu's men were fast trackers, even faster runners."

"Faster, even, than the Zuagirs," asked a sun-scorched man from the corner. He was the only there not a student of Gil's, and he had said little since his incarceration began.

"And what would you know of that?"

The man smirked, waving his hand in the air. "Words…they spread every which way, eh? A man has but to listen to hear the truth."

"You speak in riddles," sighed Gil. "And cheap fortunes, I must say."

"Some say that most of the men were slain by the first alchemist," he said, stunning the students. All eyes were now turned towards the stranger.

"And that was over five years ago, long before any of you met your precious 'master', the so-called 'father of alchemy', correct?"

No one spoke. Mita, his first student, knew in her heart that the man spoke truthfully. The rest had always known that their teacher and mentor had carried with him a terrible burden of guilt, the truth of which he shared with none.

"Did you say 'most', stranger?"

"Some say that the men's hearts were so full of venom for this murderous alchemist that they endured terrible pains and hardships…for but one chance of revenge upon that slayer of their comrades. But a hundred miles of desert, with no water? That is impossible," scoffed the man loudly, but in his laughter, his eyes never left Gilvir's.

"Some would come to say, that there was God's will behind their sparing," continued the stranger. "Others, that an alchemist also traveled with the desert wolves, and he bided his time…waiting for the weaker ones to die, watching comrades eat the flesh of comrades…and only then did he reveal the universal truth he had discovered…"

"And to whom did he reveal this 'truth'," asked Gilvir, his hands wrapped tightly around the bars, betraying his anxiety.

"How would I come to know of something so specific," laughed the other man in reply. "It is merely legend, after all…"

But the words clung to Gil's mind. He had heard the rumors as well, two years earlier. He eyed the stranger even more intently now, but did his best to hide his glances.

--

The boy smiled brightly at her. His already rosy cheeks reddened when she returned it, tucking him under the warm covers.

"My son is getting better already," said the woman behind her, the boy recognizing his mother's voice immediately. "I had never heard of your healing smile though, Dante."

"Sometimes it is all a sick boy needs," said the healer Dante, winking to the boy. "His temperature should steady in a few hours."

"Thank you for seeing him, healer. Hard times have befallen the township…"

"It is the children who suffer most," said Dante, gently pressing a damp towel to the boy's forehead. "So it is the least I can do."

Seeing her boy better, the relieved woman changed the topic quickly. "Will you be staying in the area for long? I know of many sicknesses that need tending…and I imagine, more than a few of the men would not mind your tender treatments."

"I have given up on men," said Dante, nonchalantly grinding herbs together.

"At so young an age," scoffed the woman. "I suppose wisdom does occasionally come to the young…"

"Enlightenment is no easy burden," replied Dante, dumping the crushed herbs into boiling water. "Drink this," she instructed.

"Will you at least stay for dinner," asked the woman, wiping at her hands with a ratty towel. "My husband's brother is not much to look at, but he is the furthest thing from a real man that you can find…"

"Uncle is not so bad," whispered the boy confidingly.

"Eli," chastised his mother. "Do not contradict your mother in front of company!"

"Sorry, mother."

"He will probably bring news of the trials, as well," said the woman. "It is a dangerous world out there, sister Dante. Even for a gentle healer like yourself. Imagine…black magic in this day and age?"

"They have been calling their practice a 'science', to defend themselves," said the boy, his eyes wide with wonder. "What would happen then, if it really were a science and not a black magic?"

"In my experience, there is no simple line between anything," replied Dante, pouring more of the herbal mixture into the cup. The boy held the steaming cup in his hands, looking at her with curious wonder.

"Have you any children, healer Dante," he asked innocently.

"Mind your manners, Eli," said the mother, appalled. But despite her words, her interest was obvious.

"No," said Dante quietly. "I do not."

"Why not," he asked.

"Eli," interrupted his mother again. "Leave her be!"

Anxious to keep her son from embarrassing her any further, the woman again looked for a change of topic.

"So, have you heard anything of the trials in your travels, sister Dante," she asked.

"Not much," replied Dante, disinterested. "I had heard nothing since the accusations began."

"Some people in the square were saying that the ringleader was captured today," began the woman. "And that he claimed to be the blessed Saint Gilvir, risen from the dead! Can you believe that? Gilvirtown is full of lunatics…"

"Indeed it is," said Dante, her eyes growing dark. "Indeed it is."

--

Dinner had been standard fare. The men had pestered her for tales from the east, the turmoil foremost in their minds. Eli's uncle had proven innocent enough, and the mother had been eager to see them get along so easily. He had offered to walk her home, but she had not the heart to tell them she had none, for they would have insisted on her staying with them.

The oasis she had once known had changed much over the years. What was once dirt road was now lined with fine cobblestones. Street lanterns lined the sidewalk, their dim globes of yellow light swaying with the gentle breeze of the night air. Houses were built of rock and stone, no longer caked mud and branches. Water flowed at the flick of a switch in every household, the precious commodity free to all citizens. What had once been an oasis was now a full-fledged town. All thanks to the alchemy the people now cursed as 'evil', she thought with a bitter smile.

She found herself at the town's limits. A high, thick wall of stone had been built around the entire township, and it was an impressive sight to behold. But her eyes were instead locked on the curved wooden sign swinging overhead.

"Gilvirtown," she scoffed, the town's name etched darkly into the fine wood.

"Leaving already," asked a voice from behind her.

She spun, recognizing the voice instantly.

"Hohenheim," she said, fighting an urge to leap into his arms.

"You look well, Dante," he nodded, his voice distant but not unfriendly. Though he seemed genuinely surprised to see her, it was clear that his thoughts were elsewhere.

"As do you," she replied. A long silence passed.

"I bet this little oasis never thought it would see the two of us again," he began, looking around. "It was not so long ago that all of this was barren desert…"

"Until you gave it life," she said.

He shrugged. "It was more than just I, Dante."

"And yet we have no signs nor statues, nor memorials in our honor," she chuckled. "Strange, is it not?"

"I have learned to conduct my work beyond the realms of recognition and glory," he said solemnly. "As I imagine, you have learned as well."

"My research has…faltered of late," she said, turning away. "It was never the same without you."

The faint trace of a smile touched his lips. "Nor was it the same without you. But…I suppose if you are here, it is more than nostalgia alone that has brought you back, no?"

"I am here, as you, for the trials."

"To hurl stones at the accused?"

"Of course not."

He turned away. "To rescue _him_, then?"

"Who?"

"The self-anointed 'father of alchemy'…Gilvir…"

She looked down. "I am here to help all of God's children, Hohenheim. I make no distinctions between the innocent."

"Innocent? He who would steal our work, and use it for his own ends? To murder, to gain false fame and credit for the work _we_ suffered for?"

"And which of those bothers you the most, Hohenheim? The fame and glory?"

He laughed, but his eyes remained serious. "The only thing he cost me of value was…the woman I loved."

"Loved?"

"My work is now my mistress," he said tiredly. "It is the only thing I have the heart for any longer."

"We have gotten so cynical, Hohenheim, so jaded. Is that the sacrifice we consciously gave for our work?"

"We never gave," he said somberly. "The work took from us."

--

Later, in the quiet din of a half empty bar, the two sat in a shadowed corner, sipping flagons of wine. Dante found herself stealing glances of him over the rim of her glass; he had changed much over the years. He was no longer dainty and frail, but worn and rugged. The desert elements had toughened him considerably.

"They are done for," he remarked suddenly, watching a happy couple on the other side of the bar. "The 'witches', that is," he added as an afterthought.

"What have you heard?"

"Everything," he shrugged. "The fourteen accused will be tried in conjunction before an elected tribunal…and if there are any doubts on the outcome, they are already preparing the execution grounds."

"They will do so in vain."

"Are you that committed," he asked. "To put yourself at risk for them?"

"They are our brothers and sisters, Hohenheim," she answered. "No matter what we might feel about them as individuals, we have a responsibility and obligation to help."

"Why? The way I see it, _he_ was the one who stole our work, and spread it foolishly. It was _he_ who let them get caught for _his_ stolen work…it is therefore _his_ responsibility."

"_We_ were the ones to open Pandora's box, Hohenheim…"

"So now we are responsible for all the greed, hate, and sin of the world?"

"You have changed so much," she remarked. "And yet…you are still so much the same."

"A backhanded compliment if I ever heard one," he chuckled. "Vintage Dante…"

"And what happened to the Hohenheim of old," she asked, reaching for his hand. But he flinched at her touch before pulling his hand away completely.

"He disappeared from the oasis, into the desert," he said, looking away. "Long, long ago…"

"And when will he return to those that await him…" she wondered, her eyes pleading. "To the…people who love him?"

He seemed to think over her words carefully, his eyes still locked on that happy couple.

"I shall help you," he finally said.

--

The trial began the next morning, the sun sweltering and hazy over the horizon. Those in the know knew it would be an insufferably hot day just by the position of the sun. And though the judgment area would have neither shade nor seating, the townsfolk hurried there at the break of dawn to get a good spot.

The entire area was crammed full by the time the two got there. Some of the spectators brought picnic baskets, many their entire family. The townspeople, eager for a spectacle, had shown up in droves, clamoring for a chance of seeing something memorable.

"So _these_ are your brothers and sisters, Dante," smirked Hohenheim, when he saw the look of disgust cross her face.

"They know not what they do," she replied.

"Sounds to me like they know exactly what they want to do," he said, hearing them begin to chant for death.

"They might never get a chance," she said. "Elder Ritu is serving on the tribunal; I doubt he would give in to their requests."

"The oasis has changed much, Dante, just as you said…do not be surprised if the people within it have changed as well."

As he spoke, he looked around at the people about, the town leaders setting up their tables…everywhere but at her. She noticed this with a pang of guilt, knowing that she had let him slip away all those years ago.

Can you forget me so easily, she wondered. And though her heart longed to ask him that, she knew also that her heart feared his answer.

The massive door to the prison swung open as each of the accused was brought forward to hear the charges against them. The entire crowd turned towards the commotion, their patience finally paying off. Hohenheim could not resist turning with them, his eyes scanning the accused witches.

"She looks familiar," said Dante, standing on her toes to see the first of Gilvir's students herded before the tribunal.

"She looks like you," said Hohenheim. "In your younger days."

"I was never that scrawny…"

"Perhaps not, but her face is a dead giveaway."

"Giveaway…?"

"Gilvir's first student…? Come on; surely I do not need to tell you what he was really after…"

"You still cannot let that go, can you?"

He shrugged, still avoiding her eyes. "I speak as I see."

"God help us all if you ever lose your vision, then."

But her words were lost in the angry cries of the crowd, as the man who had supposedly claimed to be Gilvir was brought forward. The wave of spectators flowed forward, pushing and shoving to get a chance at the man intent on besmirching the good name of their town's founder and resident saint. It was only a wall of disciplined men standing guard for the tribunal that kept the man from being torn to shreds by the unruly mob.

He was smaller than she remembered, so much smaller. His massive belly was gone, and his features bordered on gaunt. Despite his massive weight loss, she recognized Gilvir clearly, the memories of that day coming back to her.

"Are you all right," asked Hohenheim, and she realized that he had been talking to her.

"Yes, I am…fine," she said, feigning a headache. "It is this sun…"

"Well, it seems like this is merely a preliminary hearing," he said, looking over the people in front of him. "We could retire for an early lunch…"

"That sounds best," she said, her voice hollow.

--

The corner café was nearly empty when they sat down to order. A young woman brought over menus, and she seemed to linger for an extra moment.

"We will need a minute," Hohenheim said.

"Have you come here before, sir," she asked. "You look terribly familiar…"

"This is my first time in town," he replied, burying his face in the menu.

The girl looked at Dante next, and something clicked in her mind. But when she opened her mouth to speak, a man from behind the counter called to her.

"Katha, get over here and help with the cutting," he yelled.

"Excuse me," she bowed. "My husband can do nothing on his own."

"Get used to it, dear," Dante called after her. After she was gone, she looked at him curiously.

"That woman knew you."

He nodded.

"The man behind the counter will probably recognize me, too," he said, putting down the menu.

"Who are they?"

"Children from the oasis," he replied. "Victims of my orchard."

"Oh, Hohenheim," she said gently. "That orchard was so beautiful…"

"And poisonous."

"It still…it was still the nicest thing any man has ever done for me," she said, and she could see the couple talking hurriedly, pointing in their direction.

"We should go," he said under his breath. But before she could reply, the couple was already heading over.

"Greetings," said the young man, staring at Hohenheim. "My wife tells me this is your first time here. We are honored by your patronage at our new establishment."

"It is a beautiful café," remarked Hohenheim, his eyes meeting the owner's. "You should be proud of what you have done here, sir."

"Please," said the man, putting up his hand. "Call me Annan."

"It is a pleasure to…meet you, Annan," nodded Hohenheim.

The women watched this exchange with curiosity. Katha, the waitress, opened her mouth to speak when her husband cut her off.

"My wife Katha and I are expecting our first child," he said, proudly rubbing her stomach. "Would you do us the honor of blessing it?"

"I am no man of God," replied Hohenheim, pausing. "But if you will accept it…I give your family my blessing all the same."

"You are a good man, sir, and have our thanks," bowed Annan.

"Have you any children of your own," blurted out Katha, eager to get into the conversation.

"I…we are merely colleagues," said Hohenheim, looking at Dante. And though his tone was casual, she was certain she saw a flicker of resentment in his eyes.

"That is such a shame," said the woman. "You two would make a cute couple…"

"Maybe once upon a time," said Dante quietly.

"Forgive our intrusion," apologized Annan, pulling his wife away. "Please, enjoy your meal. And…I recommend the apple crisp," he added, sharing a knowing glance with Hohenheim. "The region grows the finest apples these days."

After they were gone, Hohenheim let out a sigh of relief.

"We are safe," he said. "They—he can be trusted with our identities."

"Are you certain? We are both wanted fugitives," said Dante.

"That boy—I mean, that man, Annan…he knew me, yet he smiled," he began thoughtfully. "Perhaps the people here have changed after all…"

"Time heals all wounds," she said.

"Not all," he replied, his eyes distant.

"Oh, Hohenheim…" She longed to reach out to him, to take his hand and hold it, but she could see the distance in his gaze.

"Others probably still search for me, the killer of _Saint_ Gilvir…"

"Maybe if we can prove the man on trial really is Gi—"

"They are lost," he interrupted, turning back to her. "Gilvir would rather die than lose his place in these people's hearts."

"How can you be so certain?"

"He told me as much when I spoke with him," Hohenheim said casually.

"What? When did this happen?"

"Yesterday, before he was caught," he shrugged. "We…bumped into each other on the street, and shared a few words."

"…And was it coincidence that he was captured shortly afterwards?"

"Coincidence…fate…take your pick," he said, waving his hand in the air. "Personally, I prefer…equivalence."

"Hohenheim…did you…?" But no matter the strength of her resolve, Dante could not find it in herself to finish the question. Nor did Hohenheim offer an answer.

--

The broiling sun was descending from its pinnacle to inch closer towards the horizon by the time the trial resumed that afternoon. The people were weary from the proceedings, their throats bone dry from extended hours of cursing and screaming. The tribunal had brought each of the accusers up, townsfolk all too eager to volunteer their time and words, basking in their moment in the sun.

"This is a travesty," Hohenheim remarked. "Why are they even bothering with the pretense of a trial? It is not as if any of them would mind simple mob justice…"

"They want people to see how far we have come, as a society," said Dante.

"The only improvements I see are in the methods of execution…"

"We are not here to judge the people, but to save the victims," she reminded him. But his mind seemed to be elsewhere, lost in the rumble of the crowd.

"I see the elder Ritu," he pointed. "He does not seem pleased."

"He knows the accusers are lying," she said. "This must be tearing him apart…"

"Well, he seems to be doing nothing about the lies," noted Hohenheim. "So it must not bother him that much."

"He is in an awkward position as leader."

"Yet the terrible burden of leadership was not so terrible when he moved into the big house with the extra servants and maids…"

"He is not like that."

"People are all like that, Dante," he said. "People care only when they have to."

"And are you any different," she teased playfully.

"No," he said, his eyes darkly serious. "I am not."

--

After the first day of the trial had come to a close, the accused were shuffled back into their dark underground cells. The chains of their bonds clinked against the ground, dragging heavily along that long walk. Gilvir, the last in line, felt a hand on his shoulder. Expecting another search (the guards were well aware that a skilled alchemist needed only something to write with to have power), he brought his hands up with a sigh. Instead, the guard pulled him towards another room on the upper level, a room decorated simply with the furnishings of an office. At the desk sat the elder Ritu. He sent the guard away with the wave of his hand, and spoke only when the door closed behind him.

"Greetings, Gilvir," he said kindly. "I hope today's proceedings were not too…ah, difficult on you."

"They are what I expected," shrugged Gilvir. He was not looking forward to the second day's proceedings.

"The people…they want your blood, as I imagine you caught onto today."

"What is it _you_ want, Ritu?"

"I have been thinking about what you said yesterday, about building this township…do you believe that to be true?"

"I was upset; I said many things I should not have."

"Such as your true identity?"

He nodded. "I recognize my mistake now."

"You are aware what would happen if the people were to know your true identity?"

He nodded again. "They would tear this place apart."

"Gilvir…long ago, I had thought of you as a rather oafish man, unworthy of tribal chief," said Ritu. "And yet, now…now I see the type of leader you could have been, had you chosen to obey our customs and honor our beliefs."

"It was…inappropriate for me to be both chief and alchemist."

"And so you chose the latter."

"It was a simple choice, actually."

"All paths to power usually are."

"I did not choose this path for power."

"Yet your students locked safely below call you 'master', at your behest. They sacrificed their freedom for yours, all without a second's hesitation. Is that not power?"

"Nay, elder," replied Gilvir. "It is respect."

The old man chuckled, his laugh more of a raspy cough.

"You are young, yet," said the old man. "Yet, I see the shape of the man you would have become, and it…pleases me."

"'Would have'…?"

The old man shook his head slowly. "There is little I can do for you, Gilvir. Whatever defense you concoct, the rest of the tribunal is intent on your execution, no matter your true identity…"

"And you, elder? What would you have of me?"

Ritu's face suddenly appeared more haggard than his many years.

"I would have you live, were you an ordinary citizen," he said quietly. "But we know who you truly are, and what you once meant to this township. Letting you live puts everything we struggled for at risk."

Gilvir nodded, the truth of his situation familiar.

"So, it is unanimous," he asked, staring his old advisor in the eye.

"It is," sighed the old man. "I wanted you to hear it from me first. I wanted you to know what you meant to this town, and…to me. I do not wish to see your death, old friend, but I hope you understand that I have no choice."

"It is the same choice I would have made, elder," bowed Gilvir. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, there is one more thing I have wanted to ask you…that other alchemist, the only one not your student…what do you know of him?"

"Nothing, elder, other than that he is from the eastern tribes."

"I sensed as much from his accent," replied Ritu. "But you have never seen him before?"

"Nay, but he seemed to know about my past…"

"The infamous Zuagir massacre, you mean?"

"B-but—how did you know about that?"

"There is scarcely a man alive who does not know of it, Gilvir."

"It is not a part of my life that I am particularly proud of, elder."

"Nor should you be," said Ritu, pausing to thoughtfully stroke his chin. "But it is an impulse I can understand better than most."

"The man spoke as if an alchemist had helped the Zuagirs escape…"

"Another alchemist…? Practicing without your knowledge?"

Gilvir nodded. "We are all about the world, elder. Executing us will not stop that."

It was the old man's turn to nod in agreement. "I know this; the tribunal knows this. Yet we cannot turn back now. The machinations you set into motion all those years ago have seen to that."

"I need no reminders," said Gilvir. "Are we done here?"

"There is one last thing…" he said, reaching into his desk.

--

"I have a plan," he said later on. "But it is risky."

"What worthwhile venture poses no risk?"

"I am glad to hear you think that way…"

She regarded him warily. "Why is that?"

"Because _you_ will be the one taking the risk," he replied.

"What is your plan?"

"Well, I was thinking…the prison grounds are too well guarded for a frontal move, and the tribunal area has even more guards, plus an enraged audience at our backs. The only place we can actually make a legitimate attempt to free them is the execution grounds."

"That is cutting it a bit close, is it not?"

He nodded. "But it is the only section not guarded; the tribunal has declared this a fair trial, so in theory, those execution grounds are out of consideration…for the moment."

"But there must surely be curious townsfolk wandering in and out of the area…?"

"There are," he agreed. "Which is why the task proves so risky."

"Tell me what I must do already."

"Have you looked at the execution grounds," asked Hohenheim. "At its shape? It is as if the fates themselves are guiding us…"

"I do not understand," she said.

"The grounds are a enclosed in a symmetrical ring," he began. "The perfect place to draw a transmutation circle…"

* * *

_Note: This chapter was turning out to be huge, so I decided to chop it into two. Reading over the last chapter, I realize I made that one a bit too long. Dramatic events kind of lose something when too close to one another, I think, and chapter four might have suffered because of that. Oh well…live and learn._


	7. Forging the Stone Pt II

**Forging the Stone: Part Two**

Night descended upon the city like a fog, flowing and filling every street and corner with inky blackness. Dinner tables buzzed with discussion of the days' activities, faces aglow with anticipation for the next day's decisive judgment. The township's monotony had been broken, the otherwise drab existence of so many finally given a shot of frenetic energy.

Two men, however, sat in pensive silence at opposite ends of the township. One in a dank prison cell, clutching something small and precious in his palm. He swept his other hand across the thick walls around him, swathing wide circles, searching for a weak spot in the rocky walls.

The other man sat at a cluttered desk, an open journal before him and an ink-dipped quill hanging loosely in his hand. A window stood ajar, the light evening breeze rustling his papers. Stars dangled across a clear sky, the crescent moon bearing its light upon the desert plain.

Both men seemed to weigh heavy decisions on their minds. And though the burden of those choices weighed terribly on their consciences, they were both unaware that the repercussions of their choices would come to affect their entire world.

--

The execution grounds, as they were now being called, had first been built during the early days of the jewel windfall, for competitive sporting events. It was built on the flattest section of the area, with a ring of wooden bleacher seats lining each side and low walls to keep out gusting sandstorms. Rare was the occasional sporting event, none as sensationally anticipated as the upcoming executions.

Dante marveled again at the fine edge of her work tool, holding its sharp steel point sharp against the moonlight. Though her tool was indeed efficient and capable of carving through sand and stone, she labored all the same at her task, dragging its edge carefully along the border of the grounds.

The outer ring; it had always been the first step of the transmutation circle, but never in her life had it been so time consuming. Nor in her lifetime of alchemic studies had she ever heard of a circle so large. But Hohenheim had insisted on her role, in exchange for his help. Part of her feared the responsibility, her own work so stagnant of late. If she were to make the slightest mistake…

But she pushed the negative thought aside. They would make it work, like they always had. Fate had put the game into motion, firstly all those years ago, and now again. It was unlike her own failed—

A sound interrupted her thoughts. She spun on her heels, ducking into a shadowed alcove. Silence. Not even the wind's gentle gusts rustled a sound as she huddled in her hiding place. Holding her breath, her eyes nervously scanned area, finding nothing.

This was dangerous work, just as Hohenheim had said. While the transmutation circle was massively ambitious on its own, the simple act of drawing the circle would place her on the execution pyres with the rest of the accused if she were caught. Her nerves hummed with tension, the worst possible fears finding sustenance in her mind's worried, wandering eye.

Perhaps it was a curious onlooker, or someone looking to find a good seat. Or perhaps it was a bandit…and in her mind, that was almost preferable to the alternative. Any townsfolk who stumbled upon her in the act would report her—

Again that sound, this time from the other side. Was she surrounded? Recognizing her undesirable position, she sidled against the wall, shifting along the dark wood to seek a better hiding place. Her heart pounded, threatening to jump from her very chest. She could see the end of her handiwork, incomplete, the unfinished line the least of her worries. Clutching the tool desperately to her chest, she knew it was her last line of defense against whatever lay in waiting, out there in the desert.

Movement at her back, the sound of shuffling sand. Dante spun at the sound, the sharp tool still held tightly in her hands. A slight resistance met the point, and she saw the shadow that had been stalking her, the tool piercing her would-be assailant's chest.

Silver moonlight fell on the stunned face of the girl from the day before: Katha. Her mouth hung open, a thin river of blood flowing from the corner of her lips. Well accustomed to death, Dante knew in an instant that the woman was beyond her reach.

"An-nan…our…baby…" gasped Katha, before dying. There was no accusation in those cloudy eyes, nor malice. They were simply the eyes of a curious girl killed before she knew what had happened, killed before she could fully taste from the cup of life.

Dante let the limp body fall to the ground, staggered by the realization that mother and unborn child had died by her hand. And though it had been accidental, that frightened part of her psyche wondered if perhaps she had been so desperate to keep herself safe that she would lash out at anything and anyone perceived as a threat, even a pregnant woman.

"What have I done," wept Dante. "What have I done…?"

--

Hohenheim was finishing an entry in his journal when Dante stumbled through the door, her hands and face a bloodied mess.

"What happened," he asked, leaping from his work.

"Someone was…following me…I…I…swung the tool…it was an…accident…"

"Are you ok," he asked. "Did they hurt you?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "But the…girl…a-and her…baby…"

"Baby…? What happened," he repeated.

"She came upon me…surprised me…I had no idea…it was…Katha…"

"Katha…? What happened to her, Dante," he asked, the words coming out slowly.

"She and her baby are dead," Dante replied, looking him in the eye. "It was…an accident."

"I believe you," he said gently. "But it is done; nothing we can do can change that."

"But I-I—"

"Did you finish the circle," he asked suddenly. "We cannot let this opportunity elude us, Dante."

"How can you ask me that? After all that I have told you!"

He shrugged. "Our work is of greater importance than a couple of lives."

Anger boiled in her stomach. "Our work is meaningless if we cost lives!"

"Those lives are already lost, Dante," he said. "To abandon our work now, after that sacrifice, would be to discredit the loss."

"These are not numbers and equations, Hohenheim, but human lives," she argued passionately. "You blessed that baby only a day ago; how can you be so cold?"

"Our work demands it, Dante," he whispered. "The heart has no place in alchemy."

"A baby died tonight by my hand! Does that mean nothing to you?"

His eyes hardened. "It is nothing new to you," he said slowly, his words like ice.

"Must you hate me forever for that," she asked, her voice weak.

"How can you expect me to forget?"

She shook her head. "I would never expect you to forget; perhaps to forgive."

"Forgive you _killing_ our child, Dante? Giving me no say in the matter? _Our_ child, Dante," he said accusingly.

"It…it might not have been yours, Hohenheim," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His face reddened with anger. "With him, then? With _him_…?"

"Not as you think," she replied, tears streaming down her face. "He…forced me, and I-I," her voice faltered. "I could not bring myself to bear his son," she said, finally looking at him. "Could you have raised another man's son, Hohenheim? _His_ son?"

He looked at her for a long time before answering. "No matter what happened…I would have loved that child. No matter the suffering we went through, I could never take out my anger on something so precious as to come from you."

"Oh, Hohenheim," she wept. "Where were you when I needed someone to say such things…?"

"I was driven off by your people," he replied, turning away from her, the cool edge still in his voice. He began to pile his possessions into a worn leather pouch.

"Please, forgive me," she begged. "I-I love you still, Hohenheim…let us go away together, away from this terrible place."

"Perhaps I too needed you to say such things once upon a time, Dante," he said, turning to face her, and she saw no compassion, no love in those eyes. "But that was _then_…the work has overcome whatever I thought we could be; it is all that matters to me anymore."

"Is your heart so full of hate, my love," she cried. "Is your heart so black? I suffer too, alone with none in the world to call my own…"

"You suffer by your own hand," he replied, slinging the last of his bags over his shoulder. "Your burden must be carried alone."

"Curse you then, Hohenheim," she spat. "You think you are the only one to suffer? Would it satisfy you to know that I can no longer bear children because of my mistake?

How then, do you think you can understand what a woman feels when she has lost her pride as a woman, her womb a useless husk?"

"I need no lectures from you," he said, walking towards the door. "You, who would go against the circle of life and the foundation of alchemy, who would use our sacred alchemy to kill an unborn child? Losing the privilege to bear children is simply…equivalence."

She broke down then, crumbling to the floor in a sobbing heap. He looked down at her with utter disdain, his hard eyes softening for just a moment before he stepped over her fallen form, through the door and into the night.

--

He found the body at the execution grounds later that night. Examining the scuffle of footprints, he could see Dante had been speaking the truth. Not that it mattered. He dragged the body across the circle's edge and behind a recess of the outer wall, stashing it well out of sight. His hand found its way towards the fatal wound, and it lingered over her stomach, as if he could still feel the life of the baby within. But such a thought was foolish, and so he pushed it aside, focusing on the next circle. Another moment and it was finished, a convenient wall of sand rising from the ground to cover the corpse.

The tool was exactly where he expected it to be, and he held its bloody point upwards to better examine. It amazed him how dark the blood looked, how oily and thick it appeared under the moonlight. Were he a poet, or a lunatic, he would have perhaps dwelled on the thought. But he was an alchemist. And so he turned his mind towards matters more familiar.

The unfinished line was a few feet away. He carefully rubbed out the squiggle where he had dragged Katha's body across, blood congealing to a paste with the dirt. Placing the tool against the ground, he resumed the work. And though the work required intense concentration and thought, his mind wandered elsewhere.

"A son," he whispered, his eyes closed tightly. "A son…"

--

The dungeon, as the students had taken to calling it, had fallen under the gloom of dusk and the darkness over the course of the day's events. While many of his students had agreed not to get their hopes up, it was clear they had, and all hopes had been dashed by the raw hatred of the citizenry.

"So what now, master? Do we try and escape," asked one of his students.

"Nay, my students…we would only lend credence to the accusations by doing so."

"What then, master? What do we do?"

"We rest," he replied, leaning against a moldy wall. "We rest and wait for an opportunity to appeal to the masses."

A murmur ran through his followers, skepticism and doubt at his patient plan.

"That is the worst plan I have ever heard," called out the eastern stranger. "Bide your time? They are already calling for your heads, and you want to sit and twiddle your thumbs? What kind of leader are you…?"

"And you, man with no name? What would you have of us?"

The stranger shrugged. "I am no leader."

Gilvir scoffed, turning back to his students, when the stranger spoke again.

"But _if_ you were to heed my advice, it would be to make a break during daylight, when they moved us to the tribunal area. Some of you would surely die at the hands of the guards, but with that time, one of you could trace a transmutation circle into the sand, and build a shelter from which we could plan our next step…"

"None possesses the ability to draw a circle and transmute so quickly, under so much pressure."

"Not even you, 'master'," jeered the stranger mockingly. "That is a simple task for the father of all alchemy, no?"

"And could _you_ do it, stranger," asked one of the students.

"Probably," replied the man with a yawn. "But I would still not do it."

"Why not? You are trapped as we!"

"I accept judgment, as all men must eventually do," said the man, settling into his bed of hay. "The lot of you are no different, no matter if a small taste of alchemy's power tells you otherwise."

Angry cries of dissent met the stranger's words, but he held no interest in the argument. As the students hurled insults at him, Gilvir pulled his prized pupil, Mita, aside.

"Mita," he said urgently, pressing something into her hand through the bars. "If something goes wrong, and we face death, I want you to use this."

"What is it, master," she asked, studying the pill in her palm.

"It is a pill given to me by my old friend, the elder," replied Gilvir. "Taking it will cause an instant, but painless death. It is his way of granting us mercy."

"But then why is there only one?"

"It was meant for me, my dear…but I want you to have it, to use when…when…" His voice trailed off.

"We are to be executed tomorrow, aren't we?"

He nodded. "The tribunal worries an uprising by the citizenry if we are not disposed of quickly enough. And…there is the threat of us somehow escaping."

"Master…this was intended for you. I cannot—"

"You can and will, my Mita," he said, his eyes welling with emotion. "I could not face the afterlife if I knew you suffered because of my own selfishness."

"Oh, master," she whispered, and her voice held the reverent love he had always sought.

"But be sure to use it before tomorrow's ceremony," he instructed. "For they will search us in the morning before the executions, and I do not want that pill to go to waste, or compromise the friend who gave it to me. Can I trust you to use it wisely, Mita?"

She nodded, staring at the poison capsule in her hand. Across from her, on the other side of the bars, he shared with her a tender, secret smile.

--

Dawn broke over the sandy horizon, casting long rays of yellow light across the township. Shadows appeared and grew, slanting into misty shadows and cool shade. Despite all the drama within the high walls, it was impossible to tell from merely looking at that sleepy eyed township. In fact, seeing the morning deliveries, grocers and tradesmen beginning their day, one would think nothing particular of this day. And yet this would be the last sunrise that would ever touch this place again.

Word of the final judgment spread through the town like a sandstorm. Sleepy eyes widened, alerted by the news, the announcement that the tribunal had ruled the accused as guilty, and determined they would be executed that very morning.

In the center of town, underground, another revelation was being considered. During the course of the night, one of the accused witches had died of mysterious causes, prompting a long interrogation of the guards and staff. Some of the more superstitious members of the staff feared she had killed herself as a sacrifice for the others' dark magic, and had thus refused to appear at work the next morning. Indeed, the woman's death did prove to be a sacrifice of sorts, as it raised all the commotion their master needed to make his escape.

Men combed through his sparse cell, searching for a clue to his method. The elder Ritu stood aback, a pensive look on his aged worn face.

"What did he draw his circle with," he finally asked.

"It appears he used dust he had collected over the past few days, sir," replied one of the men. Beside him was a narrow opening in the wall, just enough to let a wiry man slip out.

"Dust," said the elder quietly, shaking his head.

"What are we to do, elder," asked the man. "The people are expecting fourteen executions today, but two of the accused will be absent!"

"Silence," ordered the elder, his voice booming. "We will deal with that if it comes to it. Otherwise, we proceed as usual, understand?"

"But what of Gilvir, elder?"

"Find him," hissed Ritu. Looking then at the pallid face of the dead woman his one-time friend had used to make his escape, the elder seemed to reconsider. "And if he resists, kill him."

--

While that particular drama unfolded in that part of town, a cloaked figure wandered through a familiar spot of barren desert. It appeared to be no different than any other spot of the desert, and yet her careful eye knew this to be the place. Not even ashes remained, the burnt stumps long dissipated by strong, sandy winds. The powers that be had decided to not only raze the orchard, but to thoroughly salt the earth and prevent life from ever growing there again. It was a foolish gesture, she thought, as nothing could grow in that section of the desert to begin with, barring another miracle.

A miracle brought on by alchemy, and its foundation, equivalence. Equivalence stated that those two lost lives would create gain, but what had she, or anyone else, gained from their deaths? What could one possibly gain from the loss of life? Such questions were easy to ask, far more difficult to answer. Things were so much easier with Hohenheim; then, everything was merely theoretical, hypothetical. Now…now she had left the classrooms behind, and found those same ethical dilemmas plaguing her every step. And it was not to her liking, this understanding that there was no 'right' answer, as clearly as there was no 'wrong' one.

Morality blurred, guilt plagued her thoughts, hounded her reverie. And so she continued to wander through the dusty ruins of her lost orchard, the last place she had known love from the man she loved above all else.

--

Morning at the execution grounds had proven as hectic as the rest of town. The execution crew was awakened before dawn, and ordered to pound long stake posts into the hard earth. But first, the men had to drive off many a wild animal, desert coyotes and such, from the grounds. It was strange, even for the harsh land; almost as if the scavengers could smell the promise of blood in the air.

But as the morning wore on, and the men found more and more wild beasts digging nearby, they discovered what it was they had truly smelt: a young woman's body, buried under the eave of the stands, her corpse still fresh. Wolves had dug through a deep wall of sand, pulling off strips of flesh from her leg.

"Get the elders," ordered their boss. The youngest of the crew sprinted towards the jail, unaware of the unfolding situation there.

"I recognize that girl," said one of the men. "She works at Annan's café."

"She is more than that, I am afraid," said the other. "She is his wife."

"Poor child…left to die out here alone? Must be the bandits again."

"Bandits do not kill so cleanly," he pointed, after studying the body. "See, she was run through once, in her chest. The Zuagirs usually behead a girl when they are done with her."

"Not out of mercy, I imagine," said the boss.

"They like to keep the heads of their 'conquests'." The men grunted in mutual disgust.

"That is the way of the Zuagir," interrupted the elder, arriving on the scene.

The men bowed to the elderly man, his crooked gait aided by a gnarled walking staff. A single rare jewel sparkled in the staff head, a brilliant glint not so different than the one in the old man's eyes.

"Elder Ritu," began the boss. "We found this woman buried under the stands when we were setting up for today's execution…"

"It is Katha, wife of Annan and daughter of Kamen," sighed Ritu wearily. "Have your men continue the work," he instructed.

After the men were gone, the elder turned towards the boss.

"There is more going on here than simple murder," said Ritu. "I trust I can confide in you, good Khalid…?"

"Of course, elder," replied the boss. "Does this have something to do with the witches?"

"I am uncertain," replied the old man. "But if word were to get out about this, it may, and that would be disastrous for the township…for people might fear it is a sacrifice, or a harbinger of evil…"

"My men can keep silent, but I do not know for how long."

"Today will be enough, until the executions are completed," nodded Ritu. "I understand if the process has been delayed in light of this discovery, but I imagine it will be completed on schedule?"

"Of course, elder."

"Your work is appreciated, Khalid."

"Thank you, elder," bowed the man. "Is there anything else?"

The old man stroked his bearded chin, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Have the body covered, wrapped in a sack…something dark and thick," ordered the elder. "And leave it with the kindling for the fires."

"As you wish, elder," nodded the man, curiously watching the old man hobble away. Though the elder had been gentle and understanding as he remembered from his youth, his last request was delivered coldly, with an almost cruel cunning.

--

While the two talked, the rest of the crew watched from afar, rolling heavy wooden posts to the center of the grounds.

"What do you think they are talking about?"

"Probably just making sure the executions will be on schedule…"

"Yeah, the people will scream bloody murder if they are not given some form of death today."

"Does that ever bother you guys?"

"No, not really."

"I treat it like any other job."

"So you half-ass all your other jobs like this one?" Laughter.

"This is serious work, guys."

"All the more reason to laugh at you." More laughter.

"Fine, fine," he grunted, pushing the log, and feeling something unusual under his palm. "What in the world is this," he asked, pointing at the strange symbol carved into the wood.

"Stop trying to change the subject," heckled his friend. "That is probably just the logging company's design…"

"It sure is peculiar, though," remarked another man, peering at it. "This stake has the same thing on it too."

"Those easterners are all about putting their names and designs on everything they ship out here; it is as if they want to remind us that we cannot grow such things out here, that their goods are 'exotic'."

Seeing their boss finish his conversation with the elder, the men quickly resumed their work, hammering the long posts into the packed earth. Any discussion of the strange symbols was dropped, replaced by the grueling work under a sweltering sun.

--

Her stroll had carried her through old locales, sweet and safe in her memories. The remains of the orchard had been lost to the winds, and now she found herself standing before her old home. The hut that had been her sanctuary, the one place she felt safe, where she could always retreat to, had been burnt to the ground. No doubt the citizens had grew enraged by her sudden disappearance; the only surprise was that nothing had been built over it. After all these years, it still remained a burnt shell.

She imagined people avoided this spot by the looks of it. Adjacent houses stood in disrepair, broken windows and open doors swinging in the wind. This small section of the town seemed all but abandoned, and she suspected she had played a major role in that turn of events.

A signpost on the corner caught her eye. It had once advertised for the local blacksmith, but now stood as a reminder to the emptiness of the area. Notches had been dug into the wood, and she could see friction marks at the top; a hanging had taken place here long ago, the rope fibers burning into the wood. It stood as a grim testament to the violence and intolerance of the area, a more accurate representation of the town than any simple sign.

Her eyes wandered across the low buildings, the caked mud flaking off in spots, showing the inner emptiness of the structures. Vandals had taken their time desecrating this section of town, the abandoned area no doubt a haven of sorts for the criminal element.

One phrase in particular caught her eye, carved deeply into the wall by the hanging post. Someone had scribbled "paid in blood", over and over, blanketing the entire wall, probably some fool trying to justify the mob violence that day. And though she considered those peoples' actions reprehensible, she knew that she too would someday pay the price for the death of Katha and her baby.

More than that, it was also a phrase she had read long ago in Ama's lost notes, relating to transmutation circles. Blood, with its unique combination of elements, was nearly impossible to compensate for in a transmutation circle. If an alchemist were to try, without knowing…

And suddenly it occurred to her: the tool. The bloody tool, its tip tainted by the blood of Katha and her unborn child. If he were to use that tool to complete the circle…

"Hohenheim," she whispered, turning towards the execution grounds. Before she knew it, she was running.

--

He watched with jaded eyes as the accused were marched before the audience. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, centering around the absence of two witches. Apparently they had attempted an escape late in the night, and had been promptly killed by the well-trained guards. Their bodies, now wrapped in burlap sacks, rested beside the twelve solemn posts, standing starkly against the white sand.

In order to maximize the audience's view, the tribunal had seen to it that the posts were set in a wide circle, allowing all attendees to witness the unbearable grimaces of agony that would follow the ignition of the fires. This cruel gesture would only add to the power, he thought, as well as the irony. He had worked all through the night, until the break of dawn. His ambition had only grown with his fatigue, and he knew all his labors would soon bear fruit. He could nearly taste it.

But first came the grim ceremonies before the executions. The accused were brought before the tribunal once again, shackled in heavy iron chains. Charges were read, each one cheered on by the crowd, before the accused twelve were bound to their respective posts. The sacks pulled over their heads were removed only then, allowing harsh sunlight to pour into their surprised eyes.

Such a procedure stunned the accused witches senseless, hearing only the hiss of the audience and seeing only the glare of the sun. A few of the accused began to weep openly, making no secret of their fear of death. Others prayed to their respective gods, sensing the next few moments would be their last in the world.

Only one seemed to make no hollow gestures, only one seemed to stand erect, unflinching in the face of such seething hatred and ignorance. He was the stranger from the east, the man with no name, the one who had quietly accepted his fate before all others. His dark eyes took in the tribunal, settling on the center elder, the elder Ritu, who now spoke.

"It is by the unanimous decision of this tribunal that the accused heretics be punished by execution," he began, his booming voice carrying through the large crowd. "It is not a decision made lightly, nor with malice or a singular, personal opinion. We stand here as representatives of a people, a people unafraid to confront evil in our fellow man. It is with this belief that we sentence you to death. But we are not barbarians. Those whom wish to, may now take the opportunity to absolve yourself of your sins, and seek forgiveness from God. May He have mercy on your souls."

"Wise elder," shouted the stranger. "The sound of your words may please the ears, but they speak not the truth of this day!"

A rumble ran through the tribunal, and Ritu silenced them with a wave of his hand.

"That you disagree with our verdict is no surprise, stranger. Nor is it my will to silence you for that reason. Your last words shall be recorded for future generations, or whatever family you may have. Thus, speak freely…"

"Speak freely…? Have I the words to account for this injustice? Have I enough hours in the day to make your people understand what we have suffered through? You execute us not this day, elder…you merely murder our bodies. Ceremony and flowery words change nothing from what this day is really dedicated to, to quell the advancement of alchemy in all its forms! Have not the people had an opportunity to hear the truth, from our mouths? Have they not heard the truth of last night's escape? The fabricated story you wove to protect yourselves—"

"Silence him immediately," ordered another tribunal member. The executioners rushed forward with torches bared, shoving it into the kindling. But no fire grew so quickly to consume a man already faced with his death, and so he continued to shout to all that would listen.

"To protect yourselves from the truth, that one of us, the ringleader of this mad circus, escaped last night! Escaped into the night using the very alchemy you seek to destroy today! You seek to blind the people from this truth, that it was this same alchemy that built this township!"

"Kill him, now," yelled a tribunal member, clutching at the dagger concealed under his tunic. Guards rushed from the stands now, their spears pointed at the screaming man.

"You burn the body of an innocent girl to hide the truth," he screamed, the fires reaching past his legs. "You burn us to silence the truth! A truth that would tear this town apart! The truth that—"

The audience clung to their seats, knuckles bared white, waiting to hear what they all had already known but had never found the courage to ask.

"—the escaped alchemist was the founder of this town! Saint Gilvir lives, and is the father of a practice you condemn us to death for!"

His proclamation was followed by a death scream, the fire finally growing large enough to consume his entire body in a black plume of smoke. The other alchemists burned likewise, their own screams silenced by the collective roar of the crowd. Heard from hundreds of miles around, the crowd screamed in bitter anger, betrayed by those they had chosen to trust.

Seats were torn away, wooden planks snapped and hurled at the center of the ring. The few guards left in the stands were dragged down, stripped of their weapons and armor, the citizenry up in arms. The elders scrambled from their makeshift stage, ducking behind the shields of their guards as flaming pieces of wood were hurled at them. Dozens of enraged citizens charged at the men, paying no heed to the spears pointed in their direction. Impaled on cold steel, choking out the last of their lifeblood, the men still resisted, their hearts consumed with hatred.

It was exactly at this moment that Hohenheim closed the transmutation circle. Crimson light erupted from the earth, crackling like thunder, bright enough to dim the sun. Angry shouts turned to terrified screams as the light bent and swirled, consuming the entire grounds.

--

Dante felt the wave of energy wash over the township, blanketing the area with enough glowing orbs of red light that it seemed the sky had dropped scarlet rain. Old, empty huts disintegrated under the rush, scattering like fallen leaves in the wind. Even the hardier buildings, designed to withstand the harshness of the desert sandstorms, were quickly shredded by the sudden burst of power.

She awoke later, how long she could not be certain, buried under a mountain of dust and sand. Shaking the gritty filth away, she covered her mouth and nose with her hand, pushing ahead through the still-churning sandstorm as it whipped violently around her.

The roads and paths were empty. She saw not a single soul braving the elements as she did, no panicked survivors screaming to be saved. The township was empty, a ghost town. Deep in her heart, she knew that at least some of this terrible burden fell upon her shoulders, no matter what her original intentions were. There were safer ways to win a man's love, she thought with a bitter smile.

Ahead, she could see the spiraling backbone of the hurricane, twisting like a great tornado, but localized to one specific area. And she knew where that was: directly above the execution grounds.

--

And abruptly, it stopped, as if it were natural as a summer rain. Sun broke over the settling dust, the area thick with sandy fog. If one were to witness the aftermath, they could not be certain that anything had even taken place.

At the first sign of the relenting storm, she had made a mad dash for the grounds, mentally preparing herself for what she might find. All those people, in that small area…she knew it would not be pretty.

But as she drew closer, she found not a single body in the wake of the storm. She kicked timidly at mounds of sand, expecting to feel human flesh beneath, but found nothing. The people were gone, it seemed. Had they somehow escaped when the cyclone broke out? The people of the desert were no strangers to moving at a moment's notice; the ability to sense danger was second nature to them. Those without such keen senses perished long ago.

A strong wind rose suddenly from the east, kicking up clouds of dirt. In the midst of the swirling sands she could make out a dark figure limping towards her. Could it be…?

"Hohenheim," she called out. "Is that you?"

But the figure made no reply, only continuing on its path aimed directly at her. As it drew near, the blurry edges of its shape crystallized, taking the form of a ragged desert man.

"Greetings, Dante," said Gilvir as he stepped forward. "It has been a long time."

--

Time had passed quickly for the two, far longer than the uncomfortable silence hanging between them. Both, however, would swear that it lasted that of an uncertain lifetime.

"Where are the other survivors," she finally asked.

"Survivors," he said doubtfully. "There are no survivors."

"That cannot be," she said stubbornly. "_You_ survived."

"I was far away," he countered. "Heading for the border, when I felt that wave of energy wash over me…that red light; what was it? It looked like an alchemic reaction, but on a scale I had never even dreamt of…"

"It was Hohenheim," she replied, her eyes distant. "Trying to free the other alchemists."

"Hohenheim…? He was involved in _that_?"

She nodded. "We must find him now."

He shook his head. "No man could survive what I saw, not even Hohenheim."

"We must look," she insisted, before adding as an afterthought: "You owe him, Gilvir, and you owe me."

Though she was ready for an argument, she needed to say no more, the guilt on his face evident.

"I suppose it would be foolish to debate equivalence with the person who wrote the book," he conceded with a shrug.

It took only a short walk before they found him. He lay sprawled across steaming sand, his long hair draped across his face. Rushing to his side, Dante held her hand to his mouth, feeling no breath. She next checked his pulse, his heart. Nothing.

"Hohenheim, can you hear me," she asked feebly, tears streaming down her face. "Come back to me, my love. Can you hear me not?"

Her words met with no reply, she realized her greatest fear might have come to pass.

"Hold on, Hohenheim," she whispered into his ear. "Please, do not leave me again…all these years without you, losing you…I saw it in my head, over and over again, making the same mistakes, the same choices. But you were always there, always there for me, my love. The one good thing in my life; how it broke my heart to deny your proposal! But…that is not the first time in my life my heart had been broken. When I was a young girl…even then, I knew I loved you. In that hospital, where we were sent to die, I found in you reasons to live, to once again seek a place within my people, even those who had murdered my brother. All these years, I pretended to forget, to not know you, stubbornly thinking that my strength came wholly from me, and no other. But…it was you who saved me then, you who carried me when I had fallen victim to my own selfishness.

I…cannot bear the thought that you passed on in this life hating me for the wrongs I have done, knowing I made those choices selfishly. Can you hear me, Hohenheim? Can you forgive me? Can you forget me so easily?"

Miraculously, he slowly stirred beneath her, as if the passion in her words had somehow reached to the great beyond.

"You liar," he coughed, smiling faintly. "I knew you remembered…"

"Hohenheim, you are well," she cried, taking his hand and kissing it dearly.

"Nay," he gasped, his every breath a struggle. "I am destined to die here, Dante. But…I accept this fact, as I do your apology. Please…forgive me as well. It was my foolish pride that kept us apart all these years. You see, in all those years, I had built up the ideal woman in you, and you had never let me down…but it was inevitable. I was never perfect…yet I expected you to be. Ironic, if not unfair. After what I have done this day, I cannot cast stones…I am not worth the sacrifice of saving."

"I-I can heal you now," she insisted. "You are not too far gone!" But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than she knew them to be lies.

"Shed no tears for me, Dante," he said weakly. "Take the research; destroy it. This is all my fault; I should never have thought myself above the balance of alchemy."

"No, it is all my fault, Hohenheim," she wept. "The tool, it was still damp with innocent blood. That is why…that is why…"

As the words died in her throat, he began to shake his head slowly.

"I knew," he admitted. "But freeing the alchemists was…was never my intention. I meant to use them…to forge the Philosopher's Stone."

"Use them…?"

"Their souls were to be sacrificed to create a stone."

"You scum," interjected Gilvir, overhearing. "You used _us_ to fuel your experiment? Our lives are not fodder for your—"

Hohenheim's hazy eyes hardened as he recognized his one-time rival.

"And how did you manage your escape last night, old friend…?"

"I-I…"

"Your judgments matter as much to me as your excuses, Gilvir. You have besmirched our art in the name of vengeance, for admiration. The lives lost today are as much your fault as mine; but I acknowledge my guilt whereas you seek to pass it on."

"This isn't helping," interrupted Dante, focusing her attention on the fallen Hohenheim. "Your mistakes…my mistakes…they matter no longer, my love. What matters is our memory of our time together; hold on to those, Hohenheim, as will I, and we will never again be apart…"

"If there is but one memory you take of me this day, it is how much I missed your loving touch, Dante," he whispered, caressing her face one last time, her hot tears scalding his palm. "That it took death for me to realize this truth is my greatest failure…"

She could only watch as the last flicker of life slowly vanished from his eyes, his hands falling limp.

"He is lost, Dante," said Gilvir gently, his hand on her shoulder. "We can only go forward now…"

But his reassuring words fell on deaf ears; for, in Hohenheim's dead hand shimmered a brilliant crimson stone, a cloudy substance churning in its center. In an instant she knew what it was, closing his hand with her own.

"There can be no gain without sacrifice," she whispered.

"Yes," he nodded solemnly. "It might seem unfair now to lose the man you love, but we will learn so much more in our endeavors, Dante. We know only our small corner of the world, this barren wasteland of burning sand. And we both know grief. With your research, there is no telling what we could accomplish…"

She turned to look at him then, a wry smile on her tear-streaked face.

"Our first step begins today," she said, taking his hand. A jubilant joy ran through his body as his fingers met hers, until he felt a sudden coldness spread through his body at her touch. Red energy sparkled from her fingertips, surrounding his body with a net of invisible force. The hackles on his neck rose when he saw Dante, her eyes incandescent with energy as a sphere of red light grew in her hand. Soon that light would spread wide enough to engulf them all.

--

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground. Dante towered over him, the energy dissipated. Her eyes were no longer glowing, her smile no longer cruel. She looked…sad, so like that day he left her in that hut a lifetime ago.

"Gilvir," she said, her voice dim and distant. "Are you awake yet?"

Trying to speak, he felt a dry lump fill his throat, as if he had swallowed handfuls of sand during his episode.

"Blink once for yes," she said, nodding to herself when he complied. "Good, good…you had me worried for a minute there, Gil…"

That was strange, he thought. When had she ever worried about him?

"I could not be certain it would work, but with Hohenheim at death's door, I had no choice," she said, kneeling beside him. He looked curiously at her.

"So I see you are confused," she spoke, and her voice grew more and more distant, like she was in a tunnel, going away from him. "You never were too quick, Gilvir," she said, and he could hear the iciness in her voice now.

"Our time grows short," she said, trying her best to sound compassionate. "The work awaits us; did you not say there were no limits for us?"

Gilvir blinked once.

"Yes, yes," she said. "Alas, not for you…your body was unable to handle such a shock, Saint Gilvir, and you died again on the desert plain whence you were born…

"It surprises me to see your stamina was also part of the transfer…normally, I would be inclined to stay, and see how much longer your endurance could keep a dead body alive, but there are other obligations…

"You still do not understand," she asked. "I suppose someone of your intellect never could grasp the excruciatingly obvious…I shall have to show you," she said, reaching into her satchel and removing a mirror.

He knew before she held it before him; the coldness in her voice and the numbness of his body had given him all the clues he needed, but his mind had refused to accept it. When he saw the face of Hohenheim in the reflection, he only knew shock. Had the heart in his body been beating, it would have skipped at the sight.

"Hohenheim needs me now, more than ever," she said, looking back at Gilvir's old body, now unconscious. "But there are two things I want you to know, Gilvir, two things I want you to take to your grave. One, that this is the end of Gilvirtown. With the power of this stone, I am going to grind your legacy into dust. Not even a memory will escape this town's destruction, and your place in history will be left to scatter in the wind…

"Oh, and you must be wondering about the second thing," she continued, her voice dropping to a confiding whisper. "I am going to live forever."

_

* * *

Note: This chapter really hung me out at a few places. I'm not really happy with how a lot of it turned out, but I finagled it as best I could. The plot still satisfies me, but overall I felt it could be told much better. A lot got cut as well, but I felt that it didn't fit into the overall picture just yet. However, things are really going to start picking up in the next few chapters._

_Lastly, the whole "abortion" thing was something I wanted to do from the beginning, with Dante terminating her pregnancy using alchemy. I tried to hint at it in places, but such a drastic event is hard to tip-toe around. From the tone of the story, it might surprise you to know that I am pro-choice, but I think the choice must be made responsibly. Though I never would make that choice, I know some must, and I try not to judge. Hopefully this viewpoint didn't come out in the chapter, as the characters involved obviously took it to heart. Keeping with the time period, such an act was reprehensible to even think about. _


	8. Inferno

**Interlude; Dante's Inferno**

The door watched her. Watched everything with its uneven (but _unblinking_) eyes taking in her thoughts her mind her history. Time and space had no place there before the massive threshold as everything else she knew and (was that a _clock_ ticking?) understood had no place there. Lines marred the edges thin and ragged enough to be made by desperate fingernails clawing in fearful retreat (or crawling outwards from within?)

Bitter cold air swirled around her legs frigid and thick enough to make her shiver sweat cold fear. Nightfall had come long ago but the dark was faint and dim (_where_ was that pale glow coming from?) Through the crack between the great doors a thin sliver of luminescence escaped and opened (broad like a waterfall) onto her gaping eyes.

A rapping at the door cracked in the dim silence like the abrupt caw of a raven. Hoarse throated and sore it roared ruffling its dark feathered coat. A descending stairway long and winding unraveled downwards like a ribbon fluttering in the breeze. Footfalls echoed louder booming with resonance (how did it echo with _no_ walls?) louder than bombs

Through the door she sees a sight beyond her understanding. Her world her life her friends her family toiling away in the icy depths of somewhere terribly misaligned uneven balanced towards misery and spite and anguish. Enemies even suffering so terribly she could take no pleasure from it shafts of shiny steel piercing limbs in a hundred places needles poking through torn eyelids and shuddering muscle.

Names escaped her in the rush of faces. One her great love a man of strength and integrity crawled before her roaring like the great Lion his face matted with a mane of light hair surrounding eyes brilliant as stars under moonlight. Then another man his face cat-like and sleek prowling in search of prey. Dim and dark played across his angular features his once menacing face reshaping itself to a form less terrible but no more pleasant. Spots dangled on his dark skin shifting white and black and gold and midnight. And then one last face. This one she recognized. Distorted shape wolfish and lean strong skimming across the calm reflective waters of a shallow pool. Independent willful and full of pride. Tempting powerful and glorious beautiful. Every muscle moved with sinister sleek deadly purpose towards her. Baring its ivory white fangs she shivered and ran up the stairs but they fell away and it came closer hot hungry breath on the back of her neck…

She awoke.

--

Stars clung stubbornly to the predawn sky as faint morning light blurred the horizon. Such a sight was commonplace, no different than seeing the moon in daylight hours or the sun after a rain shower. But on this morning, one man looked upon the morning glory with the purpose of it being his last.

Wealth surrounded him, for all his misery. Though he lived comfortably, some might consider it opulent, prideful. He was a proud man, indeed, descended from a long line of distinguished men and women. But this was lost on him this day. Possessions felt hollow, too familiar. When the glitter of valuables wore thin, there was only the pride left to him.

And even that now was beginning to wear thin. Only a week ago the authorities had come to his mansion's gates, bearing the terrible news. Politely escorting them out, he had the gates shut and the servants sent away. Since then he had not stopped drowning his sorrows and regrets in bottle after bottle.

A rustle of wind interrupted his drunken reverie, and the door to the balcony clanked open, the curtains swaying inwards. A man stood in the shadows.

"Thaddeus, you can be so _dramatic_ at times," panted his old partner. "I am hardly the spry young man accustomed to hopping fences anymore."

"I had the gates shut for a reason, Shelby," grunted the Major. "I would be left alone."

"There is grief and then there is self-pity, old friend. While I understand the former, what you are dwelling in is the latter…"

"Leave me be," roared Armstrong, casting his empty glass to the floor. "You have no idea how this feels!"

"If I said it once, I have said it a thousand times, Thaddeus…you and Hohenheim are my family. I grieve as well, old friend," Shelby said proudly. "You always were one to hoard the good stuff; I suppose I should not be surprised you do the same with grief…"

"I am sorry, Shelby," apologized the Major. "You are right…"

"You never have to apologize to me," said his friend, sitting beside him. "It was the grief talking…"

"I cannot remember the last conversation we had," said Armstrong, staring wistfully at a bottle. "My son, and I cannot remember what we last talked about."

"It was a long time ago," comforted his friend, his hand finding its way to Armstrong's broad shoulders. "We still have each other."

The Major smiled, his eyes distant and cloudy.

"As always, old friend, as always," he said, patting the hand resting on his shoulder.

"He changed so much," said Shelby. "I fear it was my doing for convincing you to send him to that dreadful university instead of the academy…"

"He was hardly the same person," agreed Armstrong. "But that was not because of that place. His desires, his pursuits…those seeds were all planted long ago."

"But to massacre an entire township of people…? How certain are you of those officers' claims?"

"The evidence speaks for itself, Shelby," sighed Armstrong. "Thankfully there are those in the military still respectful of the Armstrong name…they have assured me that his role will be kept under the strictest of confidences."

"It cannot remain secret forever, Thaddeus," said Shelby quietly. "The people will find out sooner or later; are you ready for the scrutiny that will bring upon us? My…family wants nothing to do with me anymore, no matter my successes. But you…you have a distinguished family name to consider…"

"The line will die with me," whispered Armstrong, pushing aside a tabletop of empty bottles.

"Drowned in booze, no doubt," remarked Shelby angrily. "What is the matter with you? Hohenheim is gone, as he has been for years. Wallowing in misery and self-pity will accomplish nothing!"

"Shelby, why would you care about the Armstrong name?"

"I care about the Armstrong name because it is part of you," replied his partner haughtily. "And someone should care, even if you do not."

"I care," said Armstrong hollowly. "I care more than I should."

"Then let us show the world what the Armstrong name means; hiding in this mansion for the rest of your days will bring nothing but negatives about. With our fortune, we could do such great things in this world, Thaddeus, positive things to help the people. Things your ancestors would be proud of. The vindication of the Armstrong name, we shall call it."

"But what of yours, Shelby? Are we not neglecting your good name?"

His friend shook his head wistfully. "No, we are not…as I said before, my family has no desire to even know of my existence. They would seek to deny who I am, Thaddeus, who I love. In the short time we have on this world, our passions are better spent on those that can accept who we truly are."

"They are fools," said Armstrong gently. "I would be proud to call you an Armstrong."

"Alas, we cannot do that," said Shelby. "For your lifestyle, like mine, must remain hidden from the public…in fact, you should find yourself a wife to bear you healthy Armstrong heirs," he continued, stroking his chin. "Perhaps that nurse of yours; she seems simple enough to continue such a complex charade, and she is obviously smitten with you…"

"You want me to live a lie?"

"It is no different than what we have done all our lives."

"And to be apart," asked the Major. "Can we do that so easily as well?"

"In my experience, losing something of great value is no simple task," replied Shelby, his voice strong and clear. "But we will make due, as we always have. Faith will keep us strong, and guide us as it must."

Armstrong regarded his longtime partner with a newfound respect.

"Sounds to me like you have been thinking about this for awhile now."

"Well, at least one of us should think about our future, no?"

And what a future they forged. Where the couple turned their attention, life improved. Hospitals, schools, and libraries sprouted like flowers in their wake. People lived longer lives, better than their parents, thanks to the vision and generosity of the men. Class and race were no longer prerequisites for education and healthcare. Those in need got what they needed. Even the Holy Union of Central Churches, the largest religious organization of the region, struggled to keep pace with the two men and their Herculean humanitarian efforts.

The world was still by no means perfect, but the Armstrong family had done everything it could to make it better. Some secretly called it guilt-driven, but when the philanthropist Thaddeus Armstrong birthed his first son, more began to see it as his attempt to improve the world for his offspring. What goal could be nobler than that?

And so the Armstrong name regained its proper place in society's standing, the main goal of the men's plan. Yet this realization slipped Armstrong's mind the first time he held his newborn son, Thatcher, in his hands, his heart swelling with the solemn pride he thought he had lost so long ago.

_

* * *

Note: As some of you may have already noticed, the name "Gilvir" comes from "Virgil". This is a nod to Dante's Inferno, the tale of one man's descent into Hell. Moreover, his guide for the trip is none other than Virgil. I thought it would be interesting to use that name, but not wanting it to be obvious, I switched it up a bit. Essentially, the direction our Dante takes will be because of this man. It is no surprise then that the character portrayed is a scumbag. Originally I had intended for this Interlude to contain a bunch of references to that story, but well…I never read it. Thus, the only reference I used was the one of the Lion, Leopard, and the She-Wolf, all classical references to the temptations of sin._


	9. The story so far

_Seeing as this is about the halfway point of the story, I decided to include a brief synopsis of the story's events. Tried to keep it brief and concise, but it's only for readers to catch up on key plot events or who found the first chapters too slow. _

**The story so far…**

Hundreds of years before the events of Full Metal Alchemist, science and alchemy were considered part of the black arts. Practitioners were often executed by angry mobs upon discovery of the illicit art. Faith is the main strength of the communities, and several churches vie for the largest flock.

One church leader, William Hawthorne, astounds the general populace when he reveals to his followers that he was once saved by the heathen sciences, specifically medicine. As he was a well-respected leader of the community, many begin to give his words consideration. However, another part of the flock rebels, storming his home one night and burning it to the ground with the entire family trapped inside. All die, save one. A boy named Hohenheim.

The boy is badly burned, and becomes a martyr for the church's new cause. Such a tragedy brings many new followers in, and the Central Church solidifies its power base in the faith community with careful cunning. However, they lose the boy to a military leader named Thaddeus Armstrong (of a long line of Armstrongs) who adopts young Hohenheim in the interest of military medicine being the most advanced. The boy is sent to a distant hospital near the eastern border.

There he suffers the pain and agony of misery both physical and emotional. His days change when a nomadic family is brought in for treatment. He meets and promptly falls in love with the daughter, a young girl named Dante. The two seem to hit it off despite their cultural differences, much to the chagrin of Dante's traditional mother.

The hospital, it seems, is a bit too close to the eastern border, where a war has erupted. Dante's people are pushing back the military, and the hospital soon falls under fire. Sensing the impending disaster, Dante's parents decide to pack up the family and flee into the night. Before they go, Dante fervently argues with her mother to at least take care of Hohenheim. She approaches him as he sleeps, and reveals her ability as a faith healer. However, the fundamental law of alchemy, that of equivalent exchange, exists in all arts and sciences. She is unable to compensate for the damage to Hohenheim's body, and uses the patient next to his bed, a cranky old man, in her place, drawing a circle with blood on his sleeping body.

The hospital staff is baffled by the boy's miraculous recovery, all in one day. Armstrong shows up in the morning, with a wagon large enough to carry the remaining patients back to the safety of the western lands. The hospital is destroyed as the wagon pulls away, and Hohenheim is puzzled by the mysterious death of his bunkmate. Discussion with the one nurse who survives only embroils him further in the fate of the old man.

The group finally reaches Amersteris, and Armstrong takes Hohenheim to the mansion where he lives. Turns out that Armstrong has been promoted in the military, and using his family's substantial fortune, has begun a successful business with his good friend and partner Shelby.

Years pass, Hohenheim excelling at everything academic. Armstrong has the boy's future laid out before him; time at the military academy, then an officer ranking, and so forth. However, his close friend Shelby convinces Armstrong to instead send the boy to the new university opening in the city, the first of its kind.

There, Hohenheim finds himself a social outcast, still excelling at his schoolwork but without any to truly call friend. He becomes acquaintances with one other person, a young man from the eastern lands named Gilvir. On the first day of classes, he also notices the young woman who had stolen his heart so many years ago: Dante. She is as proud and stubborn as he remembers, noting such things as he watches her from afar, unable to find the courage to speak to her, afraid she won't remember him.

Finally comes the day that he encounters her in a classroom, where she immediately makes her presence felt. Direct, assertive, and brilliant, she draws out of him the attributes he has been lacking. The two become lab partners and fast friends, their group steadily growing. Gilvir also joins their circle, and one night drunkenly reveals that both he and Dante are engaged in prearranged marriages to others back home. Hohenheim grows despondent, but Dante finally admits her love for him, and he her.

The two often argue of faith and science. Dante reveals that her mother had visions of another world parallel to their own (as we know, the other side of the Gate). Furthermore, she reveals that faith healing often allowed her glimpses into the other side of the Gate, though she has no concept at all yet of the Gate. A skeptical Hohenheim cuts himself on purpose, challenging her to heal him with faith. She does so, taking on the pain of his injury and he realizes that equivalency is the key to everything. He proposes they attempt an alchemic experiment.

The experiment is at first unsuccessful, no reaction taking place. Dante inadvertently triggers the proper reaction by touching the completed circle, and loses consciousness for several days. Waking in a hospital, she discovers that Hohenheim has been expelled from the school for their experiment. He tells her to return to medicine, but she refuses. She explains to him what she lost that day, which was another day from her past. She can remember the events, but none of the emotions that went with it. Only after long thought can she recall everything, and she reveals to him that she finally understands how equivalency works. She drops out of school to travel with him.

The two head east with the financial aid of Shelby, now that Armstrong refuses to speak with his adopted son. Their goal is to meet the teacher of Dante's mother, a woman named Ama who first showed her the idea of a transmutation circle. Hohenheim recalls the symbol from his youth, but only faintly.

Arriving at the caravan, they find it in ruins, everyone murdered or left for dead. Ama, an elderly healer, recognizes Dante immediately, and bestows upon her all her work and research. It is also revealed that Hohenheim has been secretly practicing the nomadic languages, in the hope of further impressing Dante. But she pays little attention to his hard work, only glad that she won't have to translate the journals for him. They bury Ama far from the camp.

Traveling further, their next experiment with alchemy is in an emergency situation, as Hohenheim falls into a pit of quicksand and Dante must quickly transmute the sand to water. They soon encounter another caravan, hiding under the eave of a massive rock formation. Walking boldly into the camp, the couple encounters an old friend: Gilvir, who has become the tribal chieftain of these peoples. He tells a tale of destruction and plunder at the hands of the bold bandits, his own wife (and Dante's cousin) taken months earlier. The caravan fled, taking up other scattered survivors as they traveled. Gilvir implicitly blames Dante, specifically for the changing attitudes and values of their people.

The two lovers decide to stay in the caravan and use their alchemy to help. They turn the rock formation into a source of precious stones, and a continuous water source. Soon it becomes an oasis for that region, and nomads flock to it. Gilvir basks in the oasis' success as the leader, but soon grows weary of the responsibilities heaped upon him. One night on a walk he witnesses Dante and Hohenheim practicing their alchemy, and he becomes depressed, hinting at a deeper feeling towards Dante.

Later, he blackmails her into teaching him the fundamental basics of alchemy, to which she reluctantly agrees. Keeping it secret from Hohenheim, her guilt is only compounded when Gilvir forces himself upon her. Afterwards, she uses that as leverage to force him out of the town, threatening to report him to the elders; cultural traditions would protect her from their crimes.

Dante becomes distant, full of mistrust, especially of men. She rejects even Hohenheim's advances, who eventually proposes to her to an orchard he created just for her. He finds the apples in her orchard have no taste. Later, when a sickness falls upon the town's children, his alchemic work is exposed when it is revealed the children ate the apples and witnessed his miracles. Hohenheim is forced to flee the town without a word to Dante.

She is questioned by the elder Ritu, one of the town's leaders, but surprisingly open-minded compared to his peers. The gentle man excuses her from the mob's requests. Later, she finds a package on her doorstep, and within it, an elaborate and expensive perfume. With the note included, she realizes that Hohenheim created it, and gave it a smell, something he had been unable to do with the orchard. She decides then to continue the work, and leaves the town with her research.

Years pass. One night, Gilvir walks boldly into a bandit camp, killing many and destroying their supplies. He leaves the rest to die slowly in the harsh clime. Years later, he is later pursued in his one-time oasis, now a full-fledged township. He abuses alchemy left and right, creating gold to purchase a horse when he is finally caught. It is revealed that a group of his students had been caught earlier, at the cost of his own freedom. The group is to be put on trial for witchcraft, a capital offense.

News of the trial spreads across the region. Two alchemists in particular hear of the impending trial, and head to the township…Dante and Hohenheim once again come face to face, the span of years solidly between them. Hohenheim especially seems distant, so focused on his work. Dante admits that her research has suffered since they parted ways years earlier (over an undisclosed reason). The pair reluctantly agrees to watch the upcoming trials together.

At the first hearing, the two are disgusted by the turn of events. Dante feels sick when she sees Gilvir, the pain and anguish of his assault all those years coming back to her. Hohenheim notes that Gil's prized pupil, a young woman named Mita, looks like a young Dante, hinting that he knows of Gil's attraction to her. Dante notices none of this, however, so distraught by past events. Faking an illness, the two head to a small café for lunch. Coincidence, or fate, steps in at this point when the couple meets the owners of the café. One is the sick boy, now a man, who reluctantly exposed Hohenheim's orchard, and the other is his wife, his childhood sweetheart Katha.

The young man, Annan, recognizes the couple but makes no accusations. He is friendly and pleasant towards Hohenheim, going so far as to recommend the apple dish. Hohenheim realizes at that point how much the town had changed in those years; where he had once been an outcast, he now found acceptance and trust amongst the younger generation. He later agrees to help Dante in her quest to free the accused witches.

Hohenheim instructs Dante to carve a transmutation circle into the execution grounds. She is laboring at it the night before the executions when a shadow stumbles upon her. Lashing out more by fear than thought, Dante kills the shadow, and discovers the pregnant Katha. Stricken by guilt, she returns to Hohenheim, who seems only concerned with her work on the circle. She yells angrily at him, but he quickly turns the table on her, revealing the truth behind their previous break-up. As best she tries to convince him, she fails and he walks out, torn by her own revelations.

He continues the work at the circle. In the meantime, the elder Ritu pulls Gilvir aside, and it is revealed that Ritu was at one point Gilvir's trusted advisor. The old man gives him a suicide pill out of respect, which Gilvir gives to his student Mita, using her death as a cover for his own escape.

The executions pushed up by a day, the townsfolk scramble to keep up. Katha's body is discovered, and Ritu uses her body as a decoy for the missing Gilvir. As the witches are burned, one of the accused (not a student of Gilvir's) shouts the truth of Gilvirtown and Gil's escape. A riot immediately follows, his death cries echoing their own fears and suspicions. Hohenheim closes the circle then, using all of the townspeople in his reaction. However, he did not account for a blood circle, whereby using Dante's tool to finish the work, he inadvertently drew. The power overloads, injuring him greatly.

Dante had realized this truth earlier, and was rushing back to him when she sees the reaction. She also encounters the escaped Gilvir, who reluctantly agrees to help her in her search. They find Hohenheim at death's door. He admits to using the people in his transmutation, never meaning to help the other alchemists. He forgives Dante and with his dying breath begs for her forgiveness.

Dante is driven to desperation; in her lover's dead hand she sees the completed Philosopher's Stone. She shrugs off Gilvir's hollow gestures of sympathy, and she makes up her mind. Grasping the stone, she turns it on Gilvir, swapping his body with Hohenheim's. He awakens, confused, unable to move, and she reveals to him the truth. Angry at his advances and ambitions, she tells him her plans are to destroy Gilvirtown to erase his existence from all memory, and to achieve immortality.

Months later, she is haunted by dreams of a gate (as we know, The Gate). Meanwhile, Hohenheim is blamed for the massacre of Gilvirtown, driving Armstrong into a spiral of depression. He contemplates suicide, only stopping when his business partner Shelby intervenes. It is revealed that the two are more than business partners, possibly even lovers, but that the time of intolerance is still not past yet. Filled with the passion of forbidden love, the two men turn their energies instead towards a humanitarian effort, using their vast fortune to better the lives of others in the Armstrong name. Furthermore, Armstrong marries the nurse from Hohenheim's hospital, the one who made the trip back with them, and fathers a son named Thatcher. It is only then that he realizes the true value of the Armstrong name, and what it means to continue that tradition.

_

* * *

Note: I wanted to say thank you to everyone who's read the story so far, especially those that offered feedback, praise, criticism, etc. You make posting this little story worth it. I hope you enjoy the rest, the second half is where we'll see a lot more parallels to the show's storyline…_


	10. Rift

**Rift**

He sank in a sea of bedcovers, the silken linens soft and cool against his skin. Noon peeked through the curtains, the sun casting disdainful light upon the bustling world. Every day was the same, it seemed, the grinding monotony tearing at his person.

A mirror lay beside him on the floor, broken. He had grown to hate the reflection he saw, more now than when it belonged to his rival. But no matter his personal feelings for the man, guilt had bubbled to the surface, gnawing at him since the first day he awoke.

And since that day, he had been unable to fully function. He could sit up in bed with some help, or hold small objects in his hand, but ultimately he was as helpless as a newborn. Dante rarely seemed to dwell upon this fact, caring for and feeding him with a tenderness he had never before seen in her.

Any anger he felt towards her for her actions had vanished when he witnessed this part of her. Though her evil act was clearly driven out of love and desperation, he knew in his heart that he would have done the same as she.

"Ready for some lunch," she asked, beaming with radiance as she entered. Trying his best to nod, the strain caused him to sweat.

"Patience, Hohenheim," she said gently, setting a tray loaded with food before him. Like clockwork, she tucked a napkin under his chin, gently blowing on the hot soup before she spooned it to his mouth.

"Oh, did another mirror break," she asked casually, picking up the shards and tossing them aside. "You really must learn to be more careful, dear…or I shall stop getting them for you. As much as you love to dwell in your guilt, you should remember just how expensive those little luxuries are."

"They are easy enough to make," he said slowly, struggling to form the words.

"Perhaps," she replied, feeding him more of the delicious soup. He idly wondered if she had used alchemy to make his lunch as well. Since he had first awoken, he had been confined to his room, hearing only the distant sounds of Dante's experiments. It seemed she had taken back to alchemy as if she had never been absent.

"You seem tired, Hohenheim," she said, checking his temperature with the back of her hand. "You should rest."

"All I do is rest," he replied glumly, staring out his window at the world passing him by.

"I could open the window," she offered, but he made no effort to reply. Sighing, she stood from her seat, leaving him to his quiet reverie.

--

Below his window buzzed the world. Hard-packed streets lined with shops and carts, vendors hawking their wares to any passerby who cast them a second's glance. The town was not so far from the ruins of Gilvirtown; in fact, the town's mere existence could be credited to that former township, but that was immaterial now.

As part of the growing desert community, the town was predominantly nomadic people from the surrounding lands. The streets were filled with people who looked like Dante, and now, him. It was strange, how he had once wished he could change his body, darkening his hair and skin, even for just a day, to spare Dante the grief his companionship brought upon her amongst her peers. And now that he finally got his wish, he could hardly look into a mirror without smashing it.

Life had a cruel sense of humor, he thought. Perhaps one day he would find it in himself to laugh at it, but these days it seemed only guilt and anger filled his heart.

--

The world lay open before her, the possibilities dizzyingly endless. Nothing she desired was beyond her power now, no dream exceeded her grasp. Long had mankind been held in check by the balances inherent to the universe, and now she held the way around them.

It had never been her intention to neglect the law of equivalent exchange, but she found herself breaking it a little bit more each day. The future was all she saw, the past existing only to have brought her to this point, the present a soon to be forgotten memory.

She would begin to travel again soon. This town had been graced by her presence only because of its proximity to the former Gilvirtown, for its offering of sustenance and care for Hohenheim while he recovered. Its alchemic potential was laughable compared to what she envisioned these days.

But that was only one reason she wished to travel the nearby lands; she knew that Hohenheim's infirmities arose from his guilt and hatred of Gilvir. The transfer was perfect; she had been the conduit herself, seeing both men's souls pass through the crimson prisms of the Philosopher's Stone. The next transfer would be far more successful; of this she was certain.

So she had spent the past two days searching. After feeding Hohenheim his lunch and cleaning him, she would sit at a busy corner, watching the people go by. Bodies, warm and soft streamed by, like her own sick personal parade. Few caught her attention, but all met her notice. Soon enough she would find a proper set of bodies for the next trial.

Though she would never tell him, Dante was secretly pleased that Hohenheim was unable to function in his new body. It took everything in her to see Gilvir's face and not lash out at him in anger. To feel that loathsome body atop her…she shivered, cold beads of sweat dribbling down her back. Thankfully kept in bed, without even the ability to feed himself, she was exempt from nights of passion.

It was no surprise then, that this energy was devoted instead to her newfound Philosopher's Stone, and the prospects it offered her. Thoughts of revenge and material wealth had of course crossed her mind, but neither occupied half as much of her mind as the prospect of immortality. She would live forever, witnessing kingdoms and dynasties crumble, and she would watch those foolish enough to oppose her shrivel and die.

--

His body rotted. It atrophied and stiffened, the muscles shriveling and the joints withering. He sensed this from a distant perspective, the harsh understanding that it was what he deserved. The body rotted and he could hardly give a damn, no matter if it housed his consciousness.

A small part of that consciousness, however, did not give up so easily. It was this tiny part of his soul that drove him to be the foremost alchemic scholar of his time, the same quirk that understood what none before him had. His mind continued to labor, to observe and focus upon a world that had seemingly passed him by.

It was no surprise then, perhaps only to Dante, that Hohenheim's research continued to progress. He saw the world as no man had before him; as a man who had died and returned to live in another body. He saw more than that, really. He saw a gate. In his dreams, lost in the mysteries of his mind, he saw the faint outline of a massive door, agony and suffering carved into the thick stone slabs.

It was the Gate. When he had felt his life slip away, he had appeared before it, helpless as the threshold opened to reveal its terrible secrets to him.

--

She appeared the next morning to him, brimming giddily with the type of girlish excitement he had not seen in her since their younger days.

"I have been thinking," she said, pausing. But if she did so to give him a chance to reply, it was a wasted gesture, for she quickly resumed talking. "Your paralysis…I suspect that it is purely psychological. Living in the body of an old enemy is a prison no matter how you look at it, and I understand if you are unhappy where things are. But you need to move on, Hohenheim, and I think I know how you can do that."

"How," he croaked, his throat bone-dry. Without asking, she began to pour him a glass of water from the bedside table. He drank gratefully as she held the glass, his probing eyes never leaving her.

"A new body," she replied. "I have found an excellent subject, worthy of your good soul…handsome, healthy—"

"No," he said firmly. "That is not a good idea."

"Fear not," she eased. "I will participate in a transfer as well; the man's mate is also quite lovely, and comes from a wealthy, well-bred family. We shall have all we need…for the time being, of course."

"You do not understand," said Hohenheim angrily. "I do not wish to displace another human being's soul. Never again."

"Do not be hasty," she said gently, as if she were talking to a crying child. "Our work requires us both be up and about; without a proper body, you are trapped within that useless shell."

"And no good to your cause…?"

"I did not mean it like that," she answered, brushing her dark hair back. "But our time is limited; whatever you believe now to be law has been rejected. Ultimately, you shall reach the same understanding as I, Hohenheim…it is not wise to waste any time."

"Why? We have forever, do we not," he asked bitterly. "Have you even stopped to consider what will happen to the displaced souls from the transfer?"

"I have," she nodded.

"And…?"

"And…your transfer is probably not unique. I expect the misplaced souls to be absorbed by the Stone."

"As Gilvir's was?"

She nodded, the practiced lie coming easily to her. "Their souls will become part of the Stone, Hohenheim, to live forever in the blessed glory of infinity. It is not so terrible a fate."

"So you say," he said warily. "The Stone becomes more and more drenched in the blood of sacrificed innocents, Dante…that must stop."

"Of course, dear," she said, rising with a warm smile on her face. "Anything you say."

--

He waited until she had left the house, hours later, before making his move. He had practiced, of course, sneaking half-hearted attempts here and there, wiggling fingers and toes when whittling away the long hours of the day. He took care not stretch his atrophied muscles too much though, less Dante feel their rigidity returning and grow suspicious.

His first step came on this day. A shaky foot met the polished wood of the floor, and the ankle threatened to buckle under his equally shaky frame. Blood seemed to rush to every inch of his body, an alien feeling as sensations returned to the body. Nerves clicked with flaccid muscles, neurons firing at half speed, laboring over the mundane task of simply walking forward.

Inch by agonizing inch his body lurched forward, only his iron will propelling forth the unfamiliar contraption of flesh and bone. With each wobbly step, his confidence returned in pieces, but he knew the hardest part lay ahead.

With a grateful sigh he pushed open the door, glad he hadn't had to use his fingers to turn that complicated knob. But no obstacle would stop him now; he had seen the look in her eyes, recognized it from his own dark reflections, and knew that only one thing could stop it. The Stone…it had to be destroyed.

He would gladly die in the body of his most hated enemy, cursed by the one woman he could ever remember loving, if only to make amends for his greatest mistake. And so he pressed on, perspiration pouring down his quivering body, each clumsy step bringing him closer to his goal.

The door lay before him, barred and locked from both sides. But having seen the Gate open its doors to him, this was insignificant. It took him three tries, but he was eventually able to clasp his hands together, and he felt that familiar electricity crackle through his body as the transmutation took place. Bonds broke as elements reshaped to his will, carbons realigning and matter disappearing in a burst of energy.

Smoke obscured his view, and he worried for a moment that he might have used too much power in simply removing a door. But he cast the thought aside, limping forward to seek the Stone. Any joy he might have taken from performing the first transmutation ever without drawing a circle vanished.

The Stone was gone.

--

As time passed, he began to see for himself just how attached Dante had become to the Stone. He had grown familiar enough with Gilvir's body to move quietly through the house, and on the rare occasion he found Dante asleep, a faint crimson glow emanated from under her feathered pillow.

But sleep came less easily to her in those later days, haunted perhaps by a fear of losing the Stone, or of dying before she could transfer into another body. She began to live more cautiously, her skin paling after long months without any sun, and the two made an unusual sight. Nomads transformed into shut-ins.

Life became no more a chore, however, her livelihood restored in her quest for power. Experiments went well into the morning hours, and she would spend the rest of the day in a haze when unable to sleep for days at a time. Hohenheim began to view her with contempt, disgusted by the way she lived her life, for she knew she could now live several spans without regret of squandering her days.

She caught him walking one day, expressing no surprise at her discovery as if she had known all along. After that, however, he never saw her without the Stone in her hands, as if she knew of his former intentions. What few conversations they had were mostly arguments, particularly when Hohenheim revealed to her an alternative plan.

"That is idiotic," she said. "Creating soulless bodies is a waste of time and energy."

"But it is possible, and y—we would not have to endanger the lives of others."

"Our selection to this power was not destiny, Hohenheim, nor was it fate. It was the natural order of things that has guided us to this point. I have heard of a researcher from the west, a man who explains that nature selects the strongest to survive. The world, or nature, however you wish to look at it, owes us, as we are the strong."

"You are distorting the findings," he argued. "That research is only preliminary, the observations of a nature without values, without social order. The fact that—"

"Values and order are overrated," she said smugly. "Mankind has survived longer than either of those concepts, thriving at his basest nature. It is civilization that imposes such lofty ideals upon us. Where would civilization be without our will to survive? What would mankind be if it did not place its survival above all others?"

"Mankind and its qualities, its great works, thrives in a society, not in a cave. To selfishly impose its will upon others—"

"Is no different than the world we live in now," she interrupted. "I used to think how different our worlds were, Hohenheim…it is only as I grew wiser that I saw they were the same."

"Perhaps you are right," he said. "Perhaps the world is selfish and greedy, festering with sin. But what of faith? Were you not the one who taught me the value of trust, and friendship…of love? Does that not count for something?"

Her eyes softened, her rigid shoulders sagging. She touched his arm for a brief moment, her palm soft and warm, but she quickly pulled it back as if his skin had been boiling hot. It was the first time in over two years that she had touched him. But he knew the moment was broken when she turned and walked quietly out of the room.

--

Another year passed before he fell gravely ill. His experiments into creating a soulless human vessel had been dangerous, but not as deadly as the elements he had worked with. The rare and viscous element known as mercury had been essential to his hypothesis, and as it turned out, hazardous to his health.

Hohenheim had not surprisingly made peace with his fate. He had accepted his death already once before, years ago, when Dante and the Stone had stepped in. Now it seemed that Death was ready to call upon him again, to reap the two deaths he owed. The mercury that had invaded his body slowly seeped into his mind, driving him to bouts of intense dementia. During these episodes he again began to see the Gate approaching again, and he made no effort to resist.

It was only a doctor from the west that had been able to diagnose the rare illness. Dante had scoffed at the desert healers' advice, believing Hohenheim had been driven mad by demons hungry for her blood. They recommended a quick death, then immolation to purge the evil. She never called upon them again.

The doctor, a man named Winston Rockbell, often took along his young son with him on trips to the home. The boy, Denton, was as curious as he was helpful. He was fascinated by Dante, by her walls of mysterious books and apparatus, but mostly by her morbid outlook. Never in his life had he encountered an adult so brutally honest, so bleak in her view of the world. And though she regarded most westerners with mistrust, she too grew fond of the boy, who was all too eager to help with the care of her beloved.

"Miss Dante," said the boy one day. "My father says it might be best to tie down your husband…mercury poisoning can make a man delirious and dangerous."

"Is that so," asked Dante, thumbing disinterestedly through a medical journal. "Your concern is touching, Denton, but I can handle myself."

"You seem to care much about him," said the boy. "Are you going to be alright if, if…something should happen to him?"

"Why, are you offering to put him out of his misery," she asked.

"Of course not," shot back Denton. "I might be a doctor someday, and doctors only _help_ the sick."

"And would you not wish to ease the pain of one you loved," asked Dante, setting down her book. "Because of that love? Even through the most reprehensible of means?"

"I would never wish my father dead, if that is what you ask, especially by my hand," said the boy. "And I love him above all others."

"Above even me," she teased. The boy's face reddened.

"I don't know what you speak of," he said, turning away proudly, his young profile caught boldly in the sunlight. Dante caught herself smiling for the first time in months.

"You remind me of him," she said, brushing his blonde hair to the side. "Not just how you look, but how you are…"

The boy looked curiously at her.

"_He_ ever looked like _me_," he asked skeptically, turning to look at the dark sleeping form of her love, then back at the woman beside him. There was something innocent in his eyes, curious and full of wonder. "Were we ever alike?"

"Once upon a time," she said wistfully, her eyes watering. "Once upon a time."

--

"Doctor Rockbell," she said later. "How much time does he have?"

The man shook his head slowly.

"Not long, I'm afraid. His blood pressure is dropping and his pulse is weak. He probably won't make it through the night…I am truly sorry, Dante."

"There is nothing else you can do," she asked weakly. He shook his head again.

"The mercury has entered his nervous system," he replied. "He will suffer severe dementia before his passing. Please remember that. And be careful when near him."

"I understand," she said somberly. The doctor regarded her with surprise; few spouses ever took the imminent passing of their significant other this well. The desert people were indeed a hardy lot.

"I've done what I can to ease the pain," he said, packing up his bag. "I'll take my son and we'll be on our way."

"Please," she said quietly. "If you do not mind, I would like Denton to stay here."

The doctor nodded solemnly; perhaps frailty was a trait found in these people after all.

"I shall come to pick him up in the morning," he said, bowing quietly out the door. Had the good doctor been looking up, he would have seen a curious red glow in the woman's shaky hand, and perhaps the rest of his life would have been different.

--

The air was sweating, sticky with the humidity of the day's oppressive heat. Inky clouds rolled over the horizon, menacing against the clear daytime skies. Sunlight was swallowed by the blackness, churning thunder rumbling in the distance.

The people of the village fled to their homes, the echoing of nearby thunder chasing them to shelter. A static electricity seemed to hang in the air, raising hackles and crackling like wood split neatly with a swift swing of the axe.

Doctor Rockbell was nearly home when the clouds opened, dumping a sudden ocean of rain upon the village. Streets washed away with the tide of water, a downpour unlike any the village had ever seen in its young lifetime. Tumbleweeds drowned in the torrent, rushing along the winding village paths turned into a newly birthed river.

"It's really coming down out there," said Denton, his face pressed to the window. "I hope father is well."

"Sorry," he said, turning back to see Dante sitting by her dying husband's side. "I didn't mean to sound so selfish when you are suffering so…"

"There is nothing wrong with being selfish," Dante said suddenly. "It is simply another word for honesty."

"But we should live for others, right?"

"We can say that all we wish," she replied. "But doing it is another matter entirely."

"You're doing it now, aren't you, Miss Dante?"

"So it would seem," she answered, her voice distant. "Tell me, Denton…what do you picture yourself doing with your life?"

"That's a strange question," he said, looking oddly at Dante. "I suppose I'll continue school while serving as an apprentice to my father, learning to become a doctor to help people. I guess."

"And a family? Do you want to raise one," she asked, as lightning flashed beyond the window. A far off rumble shook the house.

"It depends…if I found the right girl, settled down. I wouldn't mind having a son to pass on my knowledge and wisdom to, or a daughter to spoil with nice dresses and such."

"That sounds like a grand dream, Denton. Tell me, then…if your dream were ever threatened, and you were in danger of losing everything…what would you be willing to do to stop that from happening?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Anything, I guess."

"Anything," she asked, her voice dropping as the candles flickered from an unseen breeze. "Could you kill for it?"

"I don't know…why are you asking me this?"

"Men have guided me all my life," she said tiredly. "It is the way of this world, I suppose. Men are to guide and women are to follow. No different from the Shepard and his herd; we are but mindless animals in his eyes, foredoomed to listen and obey while he tends to our foolish needs because he believes us incapable."

"Times shall change," said the boy, his chest puffing with assurance. "They always do."

"You are wise for your age," nodded Dante, and the boy beamed at her compliment. "You will make a woman very happy someday."

"You sound sad, Miss Dante…things shall get better for you as well, I promise."

Her eyes hardened at his words. "You should not make promises so easily," she scolded. "In our culture, a wife is considered the property of her husband. When he passes, she is turned over to his next of kin, like…livestock."

"That is barbaric," said the boy, clearly disgusted. "In the west, a widow returns to her family and can remarry as she chooses."

"Change does not come so easily to our people, Denton."

"Miss Dante…who is your husband's next of kin," the boy asked curiously.

"He has none."

"So what will happen to you then?"

"According to tradition, I will have to marry the first man to woo me, in deference to my former husband. A widow is lucky to have any man interested in her in our culture."

"That is madness," cried the boy. "There are far too many men in this village who would be interested in you!"

"Why, thank you Denton," smiled Dante. "But as I have no interest in them, or their outdated customs…I suppose I shall have to marry you instead."

"You tease me," reddened the boy, taking a deep breath. "B-but I would cherish you like no other man, bind you by no culture except free will, and I would follow you wherever you went!"

Dante sat by the boy, still flushed by his emotional outburst, and gently took his face in her hands. Jade bright eyes took in his nervous face, so perfectly innocent and curious and passionate. Before he could speak, she was pulling him towards her, pressing her supple lips against his own astonished mouth. His eyelids drooped heavily, his mind sinking into the soft sensation of parted wet lips. When she finally pulled away, his mouth hung open, his hungry mouth still seeking hers.

"I am sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "You would have become a fine man, Denton."

And when he slowly opened his eyes at her words, the only thing to escape from his mouth was a scream. For her once-green eyes burned crimson, brighter than any sun and darker than any blood.

--

The rains relented in the early dawn hours, leaving behind the cool dry air more commonly attributed to the mountainous region. Not that any of the villagers would complain, basking openly in the crisp air. Few crops were lost in the torrential downpour, thanks to the intricate irrigation system installed with the help of the industrious Dante. While her water-distribution methods were much appreciated, the men and women of the village were more concerned with discussing her next husband, her current one at death's door. Suitors were already beginning to line up, all eager for their chance with the attractive soon-to-be widow.

Rumor had it that he had died in the night, but Dante had long ago closed her doors to the townspeople, ever since their healers had accused her beloved of demonic possession. The only people she openly spoke to were the Rockbell doctor and his young son, the dreamy eyed and free-spirited Denton, who had endeared himself to the usually private village people.

Doctor Rockbell strolled through the village streets, sidestepping the occasional puddle, doing his best to avoid the nosy and intrusive questions he knew he would face that morning. As such, he hurried past his usual grocer and apothecary, both of which cast him angry glances, as they were eager for gossip and news. It was no coincidence that both men had bachelor sons to marry off.

The good doctor found the front door barred, and he allowed himself in with the key Dante had entrusted him. The house was dim, the windows still shut from the previous night's storm, and he imagined everyone would still be fast asleep. It was strange, though, for Denton had always been up and about by the crack of dawn…

He soon found the reason why. The boy had been overcome by fever the night before, said Dante. Denton rested now in the master bedroom, in a bed setup across from her husband, who had surprisingly not died in the night as he had predicted. She apologized for not fetching him, but his concern was meager compared to the emotional distress she was facing.

"Denton will be fine, I'm sure," said Doctor Rockbell. "I am more amazed that your husband made it through the night…"

"Is that a good sign, doctor," asked the woman.

"It's good, but by no means promising," said the doctor. Angry at himself for his diagnosis a day earlier, he feared he was lending the woman hope where there was none. "The worst is still to come," he added.

"I am not clinging to hope, as you fear," said Dante calmly. "Acceptance of death is the first thing the people of the desert learn."

"For westerners, that seems to be the last thing we learn," he said, smiling grimly at her.

"You should check your son," she said quietly. "He has been feverish for the past few hours, and I am worried about him."

"Children are a hardy lot," assured the doctor, but the color of his son's skin did strike him as odd. "Did he show any other symptoms besides fever?"

"None that I am aware of," she said. "He was sweating profusely, babbling incoherently…"

"Babbling…? About what?"

"I could not make sense out of most of it," she replied. "But something about a black doorway…I think. I am sorry, I should have listened more carefully."

"Your apology is unnecessary," said the doctor, checking his son's vitals. "His pulse is weaker than I would like, and his blood pressure seems rather low, but it looks like Denton is past the rough spot. I will, however, need some medicine that I didn't think to bring with me…"

"I can watch over the two of them," offered the woman kindly. "You just worry about the medicine."

"Very well," nodded the doctor, throwing his coat over his shoulders as he left. "I should be back soon," he called back.

"Take your time," she said, already turned away to face her sleeping husband.

--

After she heard the door close below her, she stood over the inert form of her husband, his flickering eyes taking her in. There was much in those eyes, nothing more so than accusation, however.

"I am sorry, Denton," she whispered, stroking his hand. Any former revulsion at the thought of touching Gilvir's body seemed to have passed. "But my beloved is all I have in this world. He will hate me for this, I am certain, but better he hate me and live than love me and die. This world needs him, as it needs men like your father…and you, even. It may strike you as foolish for me to say something that, after what I have done, but I would like to think that you of all people could understand why I did what I did. I have done great evil this day, as I have done before, all in the name of love. We tell ourselves that good can come from bad things, and I believe that. I truly do. For if I did not, you would be returning home with your father now, with an entire life ahead of you. Instead, you lay here, trapped within the body of a man I hate, the soul of someone I…love. And I do not love so easily, Denton, if I can truly love at all.

"To live selflessly for others, that should be the goal of one's life, you once said to me. But all I find is a world that abhors me, inhabited by people who would abuse me, imprison me. Our pure dreams become tainted by the world, our ambitions. And somewhere along the way, we lose them. We struggle through dreamless nights, plagued by the ghosts of what we never were. Maybe someday, when you are in heaven, you will understand. And you should go to heaven, Denton. I have seen your soul, beautiful and pure, innocent and graceful. It belongs in a place like heaven, not in this terrible, unjust world.

"This land is barren, barren as my womb. I can no longer create life, cannot know the simple joy of breathing life and soul into another. If I had had my child, I would have wanted him to be like you, Denton, so very much. And…if I were to again come to this same fork in the path, I…I would choose the same as I have today, even if it were my own flesh and blood. Heaven help me, I would. Perhaps that makes me an evil person…but I accept that, knowing my beloved will bring great things into this world. He _will_ breath life into this husk of a world. He will…"

The last words died in her throat, and she hurried out of the room, overcome with emotion. The only sound to fill the room was the soft ticking of a bedside clock.

Until another voice spoke, familiar as an echo but as if from such a distance that it resounded differently. And it was no surprise, considering the source.

"I, too, am sorry," said the voice, booming from the boy's throat, standing over his one-time body. "I did not want this. I did not want to watch another suffer so that I could live another wasted life. Part of me wanted to die last night, to let go and sink away into the abyss. But…pulled out as I was, and thrust into this body, I realize I can only make amends for our mistakes," he said, kneeling to stare deeply into the body's eyes. "I know what you are going through, what it feels like to be a stranger trapped in a body. I know also that you can speak if you desire it enough.

"I will do everything I can to make your sacrifice worthwhile," said Hohenheim sadly. "Tell me where your family is from, and I will lend them my strength."

"Resembool," gasped the body, as if he had emerged from underwater. Hohenheim nodded.

"I know of it," he said, his eyes distant. The land was far off to the west.

"Answer me now if you wish me to end your suffering," he said, grasping a pillow in his hands. "You do not have long, and the pain is going to return…and the visions. You saw the Gate, did you not?"

The panicked look in the boy's eyes told him he had.

"Finish it," he croaked weakly.

"I am sorry," Hohenheim repeated. "A man, or a woman, driven by emotion becomes that emotion, and desperation is never pretty. No longer a person, they cling to the last bit of happiness they knew. For Dante, that was me, for I gave her alchemy and power. That you came into this sad little play was never my desire, nor hers. But know this, young man. She loves you, that much I can tell. Know that she loves you when you pass onto your next life. Know that people will mourn your passing, though they will not know of it until this body finally dies. I will remember you, even if no other shall.

Do not be afraid when you next face the Gate. I have studied it, you see, looked into its murky depths and seen my own reflection. You will pass through and find…what exactly, I do not know. But do not be afraid, child. Do not be afraid…"

The feathered pillow felt heavy in his hands, heavier still when he pressed it against the sad face of the suffering child. That it was the body of a man he once despised made the task no easier. There was no resistance, no struggle; only the pain in his heart told him it was real. And when the terrible deed was done, it took everything in him to not look back.

--

"Miss Dante," called the doctor, storming into the house. "What happened," he asked, laboring for breath.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," she said, regarding him curiously.

"My son…Denton…I saw him on the street, and he…fled from me."

"Denton? But he is upstairs, in the bedroom…"

"It was my son, I am certain," said the doctor, brushing past her to the stairs. She quickly followed him, her face still worn with doubt.

"He's not here," she said when they found the bed empty, but it was more question of disbelief than a statement.

"He was crossing the street when I called to him, and he took off down an alleyway. He moved so swiftly that I lost him in the back streets."

"He…ran? That could not be…"

"Why not, he is still a healthy boy, with or without his fever," said the doctor.

"Oh, of course," said the woman, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Strangest thing, though," he began, his voice trailing off.

"What is that?"

"I was sure I had chased him into a dead end, cornering him, but when I came around, there was no wall where there had been one yesterday…"

"As if it had vanished…"

"Exactly," said the doctor. "I passed that wall coming here, every—" He suddenly stopped, moving from the door to her husband's side. Any worries about his son seemed to vanish, his professional demeanor returning despite his son's disappearance.

"Miss Dante," he began. "I am sorry; your husband has passed."

She uttered no reply, her eyes staring out the windows into the distance. Far across the horizon called the sandy plains, and her heart yearned to join them.

* * *

_Note: I had a lot of trouble ending this chapter; I wrote the first 90 without problem but struggled later on. The Rockbell doctor angle came suddenly to me, something I hadn't planned on at all. As for how far the connection shall go…we'll have to wait and see. _

_One thing I just couldn't find a place for was why Dante kept Denton alive overnight. It might make her seem sadistic, but it was to ensure Hohenheim's soul made the transfer intact. Hohenheim was faking his unconsciousness as well, waiting for a chance to put Denton out of his misery and escape. It was difficult to explain why Denton would want to die when we see him so full of life early on, but I think the pain and suffering of even one night would be enough, with Dante's betrayal to boot. Initially, I wanted the 'rift' between Hohenheim and Gil's body to parallel the 'rift' between he and Dante, but it just didn't come out as I wanted._


	11. A New Life

**A New Life**

The trek across the sandy dunes took considerably longer this time, trapped within the limitations of a new body. Although younger, it was unaccustomed to the harsh desert elements. Boundless energy wilted in the face of raging sandstorms, blunted by the pangs of hunger he constantly felt in his shrinking stomach.

Life on the desert was difficult, as it had always been. Making ends meet in the body of a child was also considerably harder, as Hohenheim did everything he could to avoid using alchemy in any way, shape, or form. Ever since that fateful day he had performed a transmutation without a circle, he feared using alchemy in another body. For he had felt his soul struggle to synch with the body, as alchemy was essentially a balancing act, and it frightened him. To be off, by even a fraction, would endanger him and everyone around him.

And so it became a life of toiling responsibility, simple pleasures and limited possibilities. It was one he was unfamiliar with, but it was life at least. Though he still felt bitter about Dante taking his soul into her hands (again), he was able to move on, pushing the painful memory back into his mind.

It took him nearly three years to cross that desert region, a trip that had once taken him months. But when he saw his first green pasture in over a decade, he knew the trip had been worthwhile. Nature sparkled around him, the air cool and clean as a mountain stream. And so he set forth once again, buoyed by the striking intricacy of nature, reaching closer and closer to his destination: Resembool.

--

The mountains proved equally as difficult an obstacle. What narrow mountain passes that did exist were overrun with wildlife and underbrush, the passes abandoned long ago. Branches clawed at his every step, roots springing at every footfall to slow him even more.

Unaccustomed to mountain travel, he found himself worn down and nearing death. Freezing cold rains pounded at him, the searing wind biting into his shivering flesh. His stomach began to cave inwards, only a set of protruding rib bones jutting outwards.

He collapsed on a muddy riverbank, a thin spittle of drool hanging from his bone dry mouth as he stared thirstily at the water. Only a few yards away, it seemed a yawning chasm in his weakened state, impossible to cross.

Dehydration brought along delusions, his mind recoiling under the massive strain of old nightmares plaguing his fractured mind. The last thing he remembered before fainting was a gate in the distance, the voice of an old friend calling to him from behind its doors.

--

He awoke in a small cabin. Pots and pans lay scattered about the outer edges of the room, all steaming or bubbling away over several small fires. Oddly, no odor seemed to emanate from these cauldrons, or at least no odor he could place.

His frail body was wrapped in heavy quilts, and he blushed when he saw the half-full chamber pot by his bedside. A bowl of cold porridge sat on the table beside him, and he realized that someone had been spoon-feeding him even when he was unconscious. Someone had been taking care of him, and rather well at that.

"Ye are better, I see," said an old woman from the corner. He realized that he had looked in that corner, and mistook her for a pile of dirty rags. She spoke roughly, and he placed her dialect as somewhere far to the north.

"Thank you," he said, bowing slightly. "Where are we?"

"We are in my home, silly," said the crone, dismissing his question with a wave. "Yer porridge is no doubt full of icicles now, so I shall pour ye some more," she added, turning towards the hearth. She hummed to herself as she worked, and he found his tensions eased by her pleasant song. He rose gingerly from the bed.

"How did I get here," he asked, taking the bowl gratefully. Though low on appearance, the thick soup was delicious, filling his body with warmth.

"I carried ye, of course," she cackled, slicing a dark loaf of bread into pieces. He looked at her curiously; this woman was older than Dante's Ama, old enough to have been his former body's grandmother.

"By yourself?"

"Nay," she replied. "My grand niece was kind enough to help, god bless her. Skin and bones ye may be, but ye are damned heavy."

Despite her words, he smiled at her friendly tone. "Please give her my thanks as well," he said.

"Ye are the first outsider we have seen in these parts for years," said the old woman, studying him intently. "Though ye may look like a northerner, ye are anything but, am I right?"

"You are," he said, breaking the crust of bread into pieces. "I am traveling to the west, and thought the mountains would be the faster route."

She laughed. "Faster for a bird, perhaps…not for a boy on his lonesome."

"I shall know better next time."

"These are dangerous parts for a grown man, even. Deadlier still for a boy. Do ye make a habit of traveling alone in the wild?"

"I crossed the desert on my own," he said, a hint of pride to his words.

"The desert and the mountains be two different types of beast," she nodded to herself. "Ye should be more careful, child."

He shrugged. "I shall heed your advice, ma'am, but I must be on my way—"

"Are ye crazy," cackled the woman. "Winter is approaching; ye would never reach the other side of the mountain in time…ye would surely freeze out there."

"Winter? But that is at least four weeks away."

"Perhaps when ye left," said the old woman, sipping her porridge through a toothless grin. "But ye have slept for nearly two of them."

"Two…weeks?"

"Ye were at death's door, lad. Be grateful it was but a mere fortnight."

"I am grateful for all you have done for me, but I cannot stay here for a winter."

"Ye shall, or freeze to death on ye descent. Show some sense to belie yer age."

"Look, you may think me a child—"

"Ye _are _a child! Nearly dead from starvation and sickness! Fed and bathed by others for a fortnight! What else could ye be but a child?"

"But where could I stay," he asked. He certainly wanted a place other than this one. As helpful as the crone was, he wasn't sure he could put up with any more lectures.

"My neighbor is looking for a boy with a strong back," she replied, eyeing him over. "But he might be desperate enough to settle for ye."

--

The sleepy village hamlet seemed to stir a bit more restlessly, the news of the wandering foreigner reaching each of the citizenry. But while the village buzzed with talk of the stranger, there was much work to be done before the winter season came. Wood needed to be chopped, nuts needed to be gathered, and herbs grinded into useful medicines. Everywhere he looked, people were working, toiling away like they had the year before and for years before that.

It filled him with a strange sense of unity, seeing the simple mountain folk work towards the benefit of the collective whole. Those unable to chop their own wood found their supplies stocked by the robust woodsmen, while the woodsmen returned to their own homes to find fur quilts and stitch work done by those they had helped. There was no thanking, no asking; only giving, as if it were always done that way.

The stranger helped where he could, but he found his body still too weak to be of much use to the rugged able-bodied men. And so he was welcomed by the women of the village, gathering herbs and nuts from the thick forest. It was satisfying work, his knowledge of alchemy aiding him in the task. Still, he was unaccustomed to the unique fauna of the region, and so he learned as he worked, as he always had.

The elderly woman who had tended to him led the expedition, and she patiently pointed out the rare plants they would need for extracting valuable medicines. Her sarcastic tone was gone, replaced by an almost infectious passion for vegetation. She spoke openly as they worked, and he learned much about her and her people.

Her name was Kayide, and unlike her neighbors, had lived somewhere else before coming to the mountain village decades ago. The village had no name, as no one outside of its limits had need to know of its existence. Most of the people had lived only in that small village, as their ancestors before them. It was a simple existence, tranquil and ordinary. The outside world meant little to them, as much as their village meant to the outside world.

The air grew bitterly cold as they hiked through the woods, and he could see the sun dipping low over the horizon. Kayide was right; winter was nearly upon them and he would surely have perished on his descent. But she mentioned none of this as the first snow began to fall.

A few of the men came to meet them halfway, lugging thick fur coats, wrapping the grateful women in them. Though it was the first snow of the season, it began to fall thickly, accumulating in piles at every footstep.

Gathered later around the fire, the stranger waited for the inevitable questions to come, but they never did. It seemed to him that the people simply didn't care for the outside world in the slightest. Curiosity came here to die, he thought grimly, though somewhat thankful he wasn't expected to entertain audiences with tales from beyond the mountainside. And even were he to tell them his story, who would ever believe him?

--

The days grew shorter and darker, the once bright mountainside turning grimly gray with the onset of winter. The skies, once full of soaring birds, grew chill and bitter, sending the flocks southward to warmer climes. Once moist earth became hard and unforgiving, plants wilting then withering.

Not that the people of the mountain seemed to mind. Long accustomed to the harsh winter, they bundled up carefully, patiently showing the stranger through such perilous tasks as hiking across the snowy tundra.

"Keep an eye out for hidden trenches," warned one of the men. His name was Habaric, and he had been kind enough to take the stranger into his home. "You can drown as easily in snow as you can in water."

The stranger moved tentatively, fearful of danger spots. It was really no different from the desert, keeping an eye out for loose sand, but on the other extreme of climates. He had spent a lifetime (two, really) getting used to the desert heat, and now he was thrust into a bitter cold he had never imagined, much less known.

"Ready your staff before you fall," instructed Habaric, prodding the snow with his own gnarled staff. "And you will make it across alive."

"I have never seen snows like this before," said the stranger. "Is it always this bad?"

"Bad," scoffed the large man. "This is hardly the beginning, boy!"

And so the snows came, endless and unyielding, piling atop anything and everything. The stranger came to appreciate the fresh, untouched landscape, pristine and perfect in the morning light. Even those that had spent entire lifetimes in the mountain village appreciated the sight of such natural splendor, comforted by the cozy fires of the nearby hearth.

"I am worried about her," said Kayide suddenly, to which her friends seemed to nod.

"She will be fine," assured her neighbor, a barrel-chested man with white hair seemingly sprouting from every inch of his body.

"Who is this," asked the stranger.

"My grand niece, the one who helped carry you here," replied Kayide. "She went down the mountain a few days ago to gather some important supplies from the town."

"You let her go down there," he asked in disbelief. "You said it was dangerous!"

"For a child like you," shot back the old woman. "Not for one of us born atop the mountain."

They had laughed heartily at his expense, and though his cheeks had reddened with embarrassment, he knew such was their way. For without laughter, these people would surely have gone mad in the lonely mountains.

And what a lonely time it was for the stranger. For all his experience, he knew little of the people, of their customs and practices. He felt curious eyes on him wherever he went. Though he looked much like them with his light skin and fair hair, he was still an outsider, still a stranger.

Until the day she returned.

--

It was an ordinary day, rife with work and chores, the children finding scarce time to play amidst the powdery snow. Snowballs flew in the air, exploding in misty clouds against houses and trees. One aimed carefully enough, however, struck the face of a young child, unprepared for it, who began to cry. The others gathered around him, staring at each other with accusing eyes.

"You threw that one!"

"Did not!"

"Did so!"

And as they argued, pointing fingers back and forth, none took notice of a worn and haggard traveler come forth to comfort the boy gently. Only when the sweet voice poured from its hooded wraps did the children turn.

"Ellie," they squealed, encircling the traveler and clamoring for her attention.

"Have you kids been throwing snowballs again," she chided them affectionately, setting down her parcels and drawing back her hood. Golden hair bright as a sunrise and soft as honey poured out in wavy curls, and her easy smile, still unfettered from the weeks of hard travel, put the children's spirits at immediate ease.

"No sister Ellie," they shouted in unison, overjoyed at her return. The adults looked up from their work, returning the woman's wave before coming over. Soon she was completely surrounded by the village folk, their earlier worries gone and replaced by the warmth one feels only within a tightly knit family.

But they were not family, particularly the one man watching from afar. And though he owed his very life to the radiant woman, he felt no compulsion to join in the celebration.

--

The festivities continued into the night, which seemed to descend quickly on the reinvigorated village. Kayide was particularly in high spirits, carousing with men and women half her age. Her loud and surprisingly pleasant songs rattled off the walls of the huts, her boisterous joy spreading to the people who joined in her song.

The golden haired woman was the center of the party. It was hard to believe she had traveled so far, through such harsh conditions, and still beamed with so much warmth. No one asked of her the news outside the village, so happy were they with her safe return.

The stranger seemed forgotten by the people, but he held no ill will towards this fact. Being the butt of jokes was no more to his liking than being the center of attention. And Kayide's grand niece appeared comfortable enough basking in the festive atmosphere.

Later, as people began to stumble home and others passed out around the still-smoking hearth, the party slowly came to an end. He stared intently into his wine glass, admiring the flickering candles on its dark placid surface. He had committed himself to not drinking too much, but caught up in the whirlwind of decadent celebration, he found the promise easier to break than not.

"I know you," she said, coming to sit by him.

"I would hope so," he said, staring intently into his glass.

"And why is that?"

"Your great aunt tells me the two of you saved my life," he replied. "You have my thanks."

"It was nothing," she said, dismissing his thanks with a wave of her hand. "What is your name, stranger?"

He regarded her with a strange look. "I have been here for almost a month, and you are the first person to ask me that."

"The people of the mountains are unconcerned with such things," she said.

"And you are not?"

"These are my people," she said, looking over her sleeping friends with a slight smile. "We share our homes, our foods, our skills…but not our souls."

"You are unlike them," he noted.

"You still have not answered my question."

"Oh, my name? My name is…ah, Denton."

"You don't sound so certain about that, Denton."

"It—it has just been a long while since I have said it," he said, flustered.

"Very well," she sighed. "I shall ask no more questions and you shall tell no more lies."

"I am not lying, miss."

She laughed lightly. "Indeed, Denton, indeed. I am Elise."

"Elise," he repeated. "Grand niece to Kayide the herbalist…do you study under her?"

"In a way," replied Elise dreamily. "She limits her studies to the plants and roots of the earth, but I…I am a student of life, the cycle of things that were and things that will come to be."

"That sounds rather ambitious to be kept within the walls of this village."

"The natural cycle of things is everywhere, not just the massive cities nor the open plains. Life sprouts in every corner; it finds a way to manifest itself, but we fail to notice such small, simple things, so concerned with where we are, not what we experience."

"But not you?"

"I am guilty of it as well, the way we get caught up in the details and trials of our lives…but I believe that as long as we recognize the natural balance of things, our lives will eventually return to harmony."

"Like this village."

"Perhaps," she replied, standing. "I do not know if the world would be a better place if it were like this village, and simpler. I do not know if our lives are even better for it. It would be the height of youthful folly to think one person had such answers…but I must rest now. It has been a long and strange journey."

"It-it was nice to speak with you, Elise," he said, longing to converse further with her. Though the villagers had been warm and kind, none had piqued his thoughts over the weeks as this young woman had in only a few minutes.

She stopped at the door, half open as pale snow fell silently before her, as she turned back to him. "We shall speak of this again, Denton," she said with a smile, stepping into the snowy night.

--

The next morning found him hoping her last words to him would come true. Peering through an ice-encrusted windowpane, he saw the entire village blanketed with a heavy sheet of milky white snow. And though it was the type of day that would keep most indoors, he was pleased to see the people of the village were not discouraged by Mother Nature's latest attempts to halt progress.

He found her atop a snowy ridge overlooking the valley. Wrapped in only a white fur, she seemed unperturbed by the searing cold winds, content to watch her people below. Light shimmered off her and the snow, the white plain seemingly endless beyond her peaceful form.

"I did not think we would speak so soon," she said, as if sensing him behind her. "But I am glad for it," she added, turning to him.

He sat beside her, the cold immediately running up his back, but he forced a smile to his face. "Seeking you out was all I could do," he said. "Perhaps that is in my blood."

"You have traveled far," she noted. "Tell me, Denton, of your home, your lands."

"I—I am from a small hamlet known as Resembool," he began, the lie coming easier than he thought it would from his lips. "It was a simple life, satisfying. I had more than enough family and friends to go around, so I was never lonely. And yet…"

"And yet you find yourself here," finished Elise. "Content, perhaps."

"There was a time I thought it would be impossible to live without family, without peers. Until I crossed that desert on my own, to return home, I had never really understood what being alone was about, the peace it could bring to your mind."

"Still, your family must miss you."

He shrugged. "Perhaps…it has been a long while. I doubt they would even know me anymore."

"A boy and a man are more similar than either would like to admit."

"And which am I?"

She chuckled. "There really is no safe way for me to answer that, is there?"

He laughed with her. "I suppose not; we shall leave it at that, then."

"So tell me, Denton…what are your plans?"

"Habaric has agreed to take me on as an apprentice blacksmith," replied the young man. "I shall spend the winter learning his craft, pitching in where I can to help the others…"

"And afterwards…? Do you intend to continue your journey to Resembool?"

"I shall," he replied. "Eventually."

"You are tempted to stay," she asked, staring at him. "In this simple place?"

"There is intrinsic beauty in simplicity," he replied, his eyes distant. "To learn the craft of a forger, reshaping the elements of the earth…it is a noble life, I would think, one I once envisioned and coveted. Unburdened by the complications of the world."

"The village is in great need of a blacksmith," she began. "It is part of nature's cycle."

"Nature's cycle?"

She nodded. "Indeed…the iron mined from the earth is reshaped into tools by the smith, who uses it upon the earth, tending his gardens. From his efforts bloom life, vegetation; it is by the grace of the earth that life springs eternal. All that is comes from the earth."

"Even man?"

"I like to think so," she replied. "Where would man be without the earth to nurture him?"

He nodded silently, watching her impassioned words intently.

"Cycles only work in one direction, too…we cannot give to the earth as it gives to us," she said. "We can only take what it gives; no more, no less, no matter how hard we try."

"But when a creature dies, its decay nurtures the earth around it, does it not?"

"In a way," she nodded. "It returns to the earth whence it came, but it is to return the balance, to repay the debt…not to give its essence voluntarily. A dying creature does everything it can to avoid the inevitable death; that it gives after the fact does not vindicate it, since it does not give willingly. That is the difference."

"You seem to know a lot about the way of the world."

"I only know what I can see," she shrugged. "Who is to say I know anything at all?"

He knew then, in that moment, that he loved her, and would continue to love her for as long as he could. Certainty was a trait he had possessed since childhood, the focus that drove him to succeed where so many others before him had failed, so there was no doubt in his mind. Sincerity was another of his admirable character traits, and so it was no surprise then that the woman Elise soon began to love him as well.

Their courtship was the talk of the village, bringing happiness to their friends and envy from the coveters. For Elise was toasted as the beauty of the village, now plucked by a foreigner from a strange land. But those with envy in their hearts knew no bitterness, for Elise had been friend to them longer than she had been the object of their affections.

And so the two loved openly, making no secret of a certain future together. The young man Denton (once known as Hohenheim) toiled at the blacksmith's anvil, hammering hot steel and growing stronger by the day. Though the work was grueling and sweaty, the boy once accustomed to pursuits more scholarly found in it a satisfaction he had never known. Little by little he learned of the elements again, studying and understanding them from a new perspective.

A new perspective granted by the pristine beauty at his side. It was with Elise that he learned of the simpler things in life, enjoying the uncomplicated pleasures of village life. He saw again, firsthand, the circle of life, returning him to the student he once was, where there were more questions than answers, and more questions still better left unasked.

But there was one question in his mind, one thing left in his mind that could not go unasked. Nearing winter's end, he led her once again to that snowy peak, the faintest hint of green tingeing the valley. The wind blew gently as he knelt before her, drawing out a ring as he had in his lifetime only once before.

"Elise," he began, staring into her clear blue eyes. "You have shown me a world I had forgotten, a world I thought I wanted to forget. The peace and joy you have brought my heart are things I once feared as lost. I trust in you like no other, love you like none other. My journey to this place was a happenstance, perhaps destiny, and I cannot deny that nearly dying on this mountain was the best thing to ever happen to me, for it brought you into the life I thought was no longer worth living.

"This ring…I know it is not much, but I labored and sweated blood at Habaric's forge for weeks at it, pouring everything I am into it. I want you to know that, Elise, want you to understand that this ring was forged with the understanding of the circle of life, the harmony that can only be brought by love. Please wear it, my love, and be my wife."

Smiling at his words, she nodded once as she fell forward into the curve of his strong arms.

"I will," she sighed, his heart leaping at the loving tenderness in her voice. Somewhere distant in his mind he had replayed this sequence, this happy ending, but with another memory. But as the moment passed and his head swirled at the sweet spring scent of her golden honey hair, the memory faded away. Soon it was forgotten.

--

The wedding was set for summer. The village bustled with gossip, plans, and doubts of the union. But no matter the individual opinion of a person, each and every one of the villagers was to be included in the festivities, keeping spirits high.

Spring flew by in a heady rush of blooming flowers and bouquets, chirping birds and picturesque sunsets. Wildlife returned from snowy habitats to fill hunters' wily traps.

The summer banquet was less than a week away when Elise pulled him aside. Kayide and the happy couple had taken the children of the village to pick berries, but the young woman had other plans.

"The children adore you," she whispered into his ear.

"Not as much as you," he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "Especially the boys…"

"Worried," she teased, pushing his chest playfully.

"We should get back to the others," he said, looking over his shoulder. Though they were engaged and soon to be married, he didn't want to be caught in a compromising position by the others, particularly the children.

"The others will come to us," she said dreamily, huddling into his arms. "Or…we could just make our own…"

He looked skeptically at her. "Now…?"

She shook her head. "No…already…"

Her words' true meaning finally hit him. "You mean…?"

She nodded, her hidden smile finally revealing itself as he swept her into his arms.

"This is wonderful news," he shouted, raining kisses on her face and neck.

"Careful, we don't need another just yet," she giggled, pulling herself away.

"But…how long…?"

"A couple of months," she replied. "Any names you are particularly fond of, my love?"

"Well, if it is a boy, I would like to use my father's name…"

"And if it is a girl?"

He furrowed his brow in deep thought before finally answering, the idea coming upon him suddenly and without foresight.

"How about…'Dante'…?"

--

The day of the wedding approached. News of the pregnancy had been kept within the family, meaning only Kayide and Habaric knew of it besides the expecting couple. Though the village was open-minded for the times, Denton worried others might think he was marrying Elise only for that reason, when there was so much more to their union.

All eyes were on the jubilant couple, their laughter and joy raising the hopes of all the people around them. It was nearly impossible to not look at them, to desire even a small piece of their happiness for oneself.

But one separate set of eyes watched from afar, and those eyes knew it could take as they pleased. Green as the valley's forest and piercing as a concealed dagger, the hard flinty eyes grew distant and misty from lost opportunities and foggy memories.

Soon.

* * *

_Note: Decided to break this one into two parts, make reading it a bit easier. F__unny story…I was at a bookstore picking up stuff, and wandered over to the manga section. Saw a Devil May Cry one, and couldn't resist looking at the back. They mentioned a character named "Gilver", and I'm pretty sure it was code for Dante's twin brother, Vergil. Eerie coincidence, or maybe I'm not as clever as I'd like to believe. (Probably mentioned this already, but there was actually a point where I considered making Dante start off as a male who worked with Hohenheim, then leapt into a woman's body and preferred it, but that might've been a bit too wacky)_


	12. A New Life: Part Two

**A New Life: Part Two**

The chirp of the crickets hummed in the open valley as dusk descended. An anxious young woman filled with nervous energy sat by an open window, the soft summer breeze light against her skin. Hardy she was, raised amongst the mountains, but still she shivered. Her hand wandered to her belly, and warmth filled her body again.

Stars filled the sky, more than she had ever been able to count in her lifetime, but they paled in comparison to the possibilities she sensed for the future. She loved a man who loved her, and together they would soon raise a child, surrounded by those that wished only the best for them. Few in the world were as lucky as she, fewer even those fully aware of such luck.

But her thoughts were not so vast to go beyond the high hills of her tiny world. Her thoughts rested instead with her love, her family. By this time tomorrow she would be wife to a man she loved above all others. And yet…and yet she wasn't sure she knew everything there was to know about him. His past remained a mystery to her, and she suspected he had lied about his identity. Still…she knew his heart, and that was what mattered most to her. There was no doubt in his voice when he professed his love, no hesitation when he voiced his wishes to spend a lifetime with her. Only love.

Moonlight pale as silver fell upon the sleepy village, none in the valley awake as she. For who could be as giddy as a bride the night before her wedding? Her well-wishers and friends dozed easily enough in their beds, her love only a couple huts away, but still she paced in that peaceful summer air.

A rustling stirred Elise from her reverie. Her sharp eyes, accustomed to the darkness, picked out a hunched shadow by the hut's threshold. Kayide had gone to spend the night in the forest, eagerly planning to pick the freshest bouquet ever, so the cabin should have been empty. Perhaps the woman had returned early? Elise rushed hurriedly to the door.

"Auntie, is that you," she whispered worriedly, coming upon the shadow.

"Nay, child," replied the cloaked figure. From the rasp in the voice, Elise knew it to be an older woman, and felt safe.

"You wandered in from the eastern forests…are you hurt," asked the young woman, her concern genuine.

"I…I am in need of a place to rest," sighed the old woman. "I lost track of my camp a few hours ago."

"You poor thing," said Elise. "Please…allow me to provide you shelter this night."

"You are sweet, child…and gentle. I gladly accept your offer," said the cloaked woman, passing through the opened door.

"You are lucky to have stumbled upon our small village," said Elise. "How far back did you say your camp was?"

"No idea," answered the woman, settling into a worn chair. "You have a lovely home, dear."

"Thank you…it belongs to my great aunt, however, not I."

"Ah, the one you mistook me for? She must be old indeed," laughed the woman lightly.

"Old in body, perhaps, but in nothing else," smiled the girl faintly. Something about this stranger bothered her, but she knew not why. "I shall be moving soon anyways."

"Oh?"

"Yes," nodded Elise. "I am to marry tomorrow, and my husband has built a fine home for us."

"Why, your wedding is tomorrow," asked the woman, surprised. "I should not be here, not when you need your rest for such an important day!"

"Do not bother yourself with such things," said the girl kindly. "I could not sleep for anything this night."

"Nervous, dear?"

"It is only natural."

"Indeed…what is he like, your fiancé?"

The young woman looked again to the distant stars, as if seeking an answer to such an impossible question in that infinite beyond.

"He is everything," she finally replied. "Everything I could ever want…so wise beyond his years. So gentle, and sincere. Strong, but kind. Capable and driven. I believe he can do anything he set his mind to…"

"You are a lucky woman," said the crone. "I once had such a man, years and years ago…"

Elise caught something in the woman's tone. "I…I am sorry for your loss."

"It was a lifetime ago," said the old woman, waving her hand dismissively. "But I know in my heart that I myself drove him away…trust, my dear…it is everything. If you do not know a man's past, you cannot know your future together."

Elise's brow arched at the woman's familiar words. "The people of the mountains do not concern themselves with the past."

"And you plan to stay here, amongst the mountains? A man with such dreams and vision tending gardens and forging cookware?"

"You speak of my fiancé as if you know him," said Elise warily. "Who are you?"

"I am merely an old woman, lost in the past, who longs for the nigh forgotten touch of a loved one," said the woman wistfully. "You are too young to understand, my dear. Men, you see…they are all the same; locked boxes of mystery hiding only lies. Like Pandora's Box, opening them will only unleash horrors you had never imagined."

"Not all men are alike," said Elise, annoyed by the woman's assumptions. Who was she to judge her beloved?

"Your man has no secrets from his past," scoffed the old woman. "Surely even you are not foolish enough to believe that?"

"I am more concerned with your past," said Elise, rising angrily from her seat. "Tell me who you are, old woman, lest I cast you out."

"You would cast out an old woman, Elise? After all the tales of kindness I have heard? I am disappointed," said the woman, shaking her head. "Though you are even more beautiful than I had heard…"

"Tell me who you are," said Elise heatedly, grasping the woman's ragged cloak in her shaking hands. "Tell me!"

"Better you ask your beloved who _he_ is," replied the crone, her jade eyes narrowing. And when Elise calmed herself and released the woman, she felt the woman's bony hand grasping her wrist.

"What are you doing," said Elise crossly. "Let me go!"

"He is Hohenheim, the great slayer of Gilvertown," whispered the woman hotly. "Perhaps that means nothing to you, in your sheltered little world, but in ours, that name means _every_thing!"

"You are insane," cried Elise, struggling against the woman's iron grip.

"I am Dante," said the woman bitterly, reaching into the folds of her cloak. "And I loved him since before you were born, child."

Light, crimson as the setting sun and equally blinding, poured into the room, emanating from Dante's wrinkled hand, the skin like tanned leather. Soon the light consumed the frantic Elise, swallowing even her screams for help. Her last thought was of her unborn child, and Dante. He had wanted to name their child after the woman who would kill her?

--

He sighed, rolling sleepily in the covers as he lay beside her. The thin sheen of sweat cooled their bodies, hot still from the ardor of their lovemaking. It was not their first time, but their first as husband and wife. And though he had known her passion like no other person, something was different about her this night.

"What is it," she asked, staring into his eyes. "I can tell you are brooding."

"I am just happy," he said, pushing aside a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "Happier than I ever thought I could be."

"This place is…nice," she said, looking beyond him and through the window by the bed. "So simple, so peaceful…I forget sometimes how lucky we are to have that."

"Why, you speak of it often enough," he teased.

"That is only to remind _you_," she shot back. Silence fell between them. It was unlike any that had passed between them in his memory: it was uncomfortable.

"The ceremony was nice," he said, trying to fill the silence. "Kayide really came through with the flowers…I have never seen such beautiful bouquets…"

"I didn't know you concerned yourself with such trifling details," she said, annoyed.

"Are you still angry," he asked when she sat up and turned away. "About the wine?"

"I still do not see why I could not have some," she said. "It was a celebration, after all."

"But darling," he said, reaching for her. "What of the baby?"

Had she been facing him, he would have known then, known that their baby was somehow a surprise to her. And he would have known that his true love, Elise, was gone, replaced by some thing that only resembled her in appearance.

"I am such a fool," she said, tears streaming down her face as she turned back to him. "Forgive me…I-I did not think of that," she wept, falling into his arms.

"It is okay," he soothed, caressing the small of her back. And though he could not be certain, he sensed joy in those tears, not remorse.

--

The season came and went, the journey to Resembool set aside. Autumn had begun to cast its dull glow upon the valley when he received the letter. It was dated months earlier, but he was surprised a letter addressed to him could even find its way to the remote village. No one within it knew of his past, and no one outside knew of his location.

With hands trembling, he slid a thumb under the seam, shearing the envelope open. Another envelope, smaller, fell from it, and a short, hand-scribbled note.

"What is it, love," asked his wife, not even bothering to look up from her knitting.

"A letter," he replied, reading the note. "A death notice."

"Oh," she said, setting down her work. "Someone in your family?"

"In a way," he said, furtively pocketing the other letter. He recognized the feminine scrawl on its face, addressed to the man named Hohenheim; it would best to avoid questions this way.

"But I thought no one knew you were here?"

"As did I," he said, eyeing her warily. Elise seemed to know more than she was letting on of late, he thought. She had never been one to hide things, but now she seemed much more careful in what she said. Could marriage, even one so brief, change someone so?

"So what does it say," she asked curiously.

"An old friend of mine passed away recently," he said, crumbling the note in his hand.

"Who?"

"A…colleague," he replied. "We studied at the university together."

"And did your 'colleague' have a name," she asked.

"Dante," he said, annoyed by her questions. "We lost touch long ago."

"You don't seem too torn up about it," she noted.

"Like I said, we lost touch long ago," he said.

"I suppose you missed the funeral," she said, taken aback by the coldness in his voice. "But we could make a trip out to see her grave this season."

His brow arched at her words, suspicions beginning to mount. "Perhaps," he said noncommittally. "It is a harsh journey just to see a stone marker."

"So your friend meant that little to you," she said accusingly.

"Once, when we were younger, she meant the world to me," he replied, his eyes distant. "But…the person she eventually became tainted that. She lost her way, and was lost to me then," he said finally, leaving the room without another word.

Walking aimlessly, he eventually found his way to the ledge that overlooked the valley, a place that had once brought him so much joy. The air was cooler up there, cleaner. Inhaling deeply from the mountain air, he watched the people of the village below amongst the verdant greenery, so natural and elemental. After long minutes, and after he was certain he was alone, only then did the tears finally come.

--

After his tears had dried and the pain had begun to subside, he slowly opened the letter, the faintest wisp of the perfume he had once made for her lingering on the paper.

_Dearest Hohenheim,_

_If this letter has found its way to you, then I have passed onto the afterlife; whether by the vicious hands of another, my own, or old age, I am gone. That you are not beside me is perhaps the cruelest of fates, as I fondly remember the times we once stood together in the face of insurmountable challenges. I know it is by my hand that you left, I know that I am solely the one to blame. I hold no ill will towards you or the new life you have found. _

_It may not surprise you that I know a bit of your life, and that is how this letter has come into your possession. It may surprise you, however, to know that I am truly happy for you, and the life you have forged for yourself. Losing the love and trust we once shared was the sacrifice necessary for you to find the joy that we could not together find. It is equivalence in its truest form, and I suffered for my mistakes, as did you. _

_A person, one of the few I ever truly called friend, once shared with me a bit of wisdom about our lives, our world:_

"_I see all about us an ocean of sand; burning hot, churning under the suns' hot glare. And…I realize that humans, all of us, are no different from those bits of sand. Some larger, some smaller, we are all one and one of the same material, the same crucial element. It is only together that we form something of substance; apart, we scatter by the winds. We form the desert of the worlds, and others fear us, though we do not realize it. Instead we fear the world, content to lie as we are, to cast ourselves into the whims of the wind. And we get lost, so lost, afraid of what we could have been. That is the nature of alchemy, the tragedy of life that we realize this too late." _

_I leave that with you now, leave to you memories bitter and sweet, and pray you can remember us fondly._

_Love, _

_Dante_

He read it again, slowly, feeling his one-time love's emotion pour from the pages. It was only after he carefully folded the letter to place back into the envelope did he find her next surprise. A fine red powder poured from the opening, bits of dull, crimson crystal swimming in the dust. The once brilliant light had faded, the luster all but gone. It was lifeless now, and he realized then how she had gone so easily. The Stone had died, just as she had.

--

His wife said nothing again of the letter, asked no more questions. He waited for it, prepared with an indignant protest at the merest mention, but it never came. After a point, he was slightly disappointed that she never brought it up again.

The couple settled into their new life like they born for it. Summer seemed like a far off memory when she gave birth to their child. The day was ending, cold settling into the region, when his first cries broke the night. Mother and son lay in bed, exhausted by the long delivery, father beaming with pride as he took his newborn son into his arms.

"Say hello to William, daddy," she said, her eyes almost sad with fatigue. "Your son."

"William," he said quietly, the newborns' watery eyes opening wide with wonder as if in answer.

--

His journey back to the place where he assumed the identity of a boy named Denton took considerably less time this time around. Endowed with the strength of a grown man and empowered by his family, he descended the mountain and crossed the desert in a couple months time.

The elders had chosen him to pick up the necessary supplies that his wife had been responsible for, before their marriage and the birth of their son. While it had been hard for him to leave his infant son behind, he knew William was in good hands. Furthermore, this was his best chance to visit the grave of an old friend.

The graveyard was simple, markers made of polished rocks and carved wood lining the rows of graves, and he picked hers out instantly. Set atop a low hill, the headstone was easily the largest in the area, cut from fine marble and bright under the sun's glare.

From his bag he pulled forth a large tome, the fine leather binding worn with age. He set it against her headstone, but seemed to think better of it, taking it back. The knowledge contained on those pages was dangerous, and it was a danger she had taken on in the pursuit of knowledge. No matter how things ended between them, he respected that.

He remembered something she had once said, when her devoted Ama stood at death's door. The knowledge was only in pieces then, and they were driven by its prospects to complete it. Only when the puzzle was finished did they see the horrors it would bring upon the world. To simply destroy it would invalidate everything they risked for it. No…the knowledge was important, even if he wanted no other to learn it.

The circle came easily to him, easier than he would have liked to admit. The earth was dry and loose, bending to his will without resistance. The casket's face emerged slowly from the soil, the stained wood darker from its time underground.

He held his breath, hurrying in his grim task as he pushed aside the lid. It would be an awkward position to be caught in, and there were loved ones waiting for his return. The breath he held escaped in a rush when the lid finally slid off, dust rising from the ground as the realization settled in.

The coffin was empty.

--

His journey back was fraught with perilous thoughts. It was obvious that Dante had faked her demise, but why? A simple test of the Stone's remains that she left him also proved those to be a fake, but that was no longer a surprise to him.

Her words, which had touched him so, gave him nothing as he reread the letter again and again. Was she after his family? Could she hurt his wife and son if it came down to it? These were questions he didn't want to ask, much less answer.

The tension lightened his feet, carrying him home swiftly. By the time he saw the entrance to the village, he was running. He burst through the front door of his home, frantic.

"William, where are you," he yelled. "William! William!"

"Can you forget me so easily," asked his wife, sitting by the fire.

He stopped, her words oddly familiar. "What did you say?"

"Hello to you too, honey," she said with a smirk. "You seem to have forgotten about your lovely wife…"

"What did you just say to me," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

"What is wrong," she asked, taken aback by his intensity. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing," he said angrily, turning away. "Where is William?"

"Sleeping…that is what babies do, after all."

He felt her soft hands on his shoulders, rubbing the tension away as he sank into a chair. The journey had been long, and he had not stopped even once to rest. Weary and worn from his travels, he let himself ease into her massage.

His head swayed against the headrest, lost in the oblivion of comfort, when he felt her wrist against his face. Nuzzling against it as he had a thousand times before, something felt different this time. It was only when her scent filled his nostrils did he finally recoil with the realization.

"What is it," she asked, worried.

"That perfume…where did you get it?"

"Why, this is the perfume I always wear, darling," she replied.

"Elise never wore perfume, Dante," he said coldly. "She was never that vain."

She smiled at him, bringing her hands together in mocking applause. "So you _finally_ figured it out, Hohenheim. After all the hints I have left for you…"

"You wanted me to know?"

"Of course," she said. "If I hadn't, you would never know, Hohenheim. It would have been so simple to dupe you. Alas, the fun of a secret only lasts for so long before one tires of it."

"What did you do with her, Dante," he asked, his hands clenching into fists. "Where is Elise?"

"Dead, I imagine," said Dante, twirling a blonde hair between her fingers. "I would never have pictured you with a blonde, Hohenheim."

"This isn't some damned game for your amusement," he yelled, stepping forward with his balled fists raised, ready to strike at her.

"William, Hohenheim…will you not think of our child," she asked coolly, looking into the baby's room.

"You would not dare hurt my son," he said, but froze in his tracks nonetheless.

"If you remain calm, I will not have to," she said carefully, watching him intently. "I knew when you left on your journey that you would surely discover the truth, so I took the necessary…precautions."

"How long, Dante," he asked weakly, falling into a nearby chair. "When did you take her from me?"

"What, you cannot guess? Surely a man so dedicated to his love would have detected something amiss…"

"The wedding…it was our wedding, wasn't it?"

A mischievous smile came to her lips. Though she occupied the body of Elise, her smile was so different, so satisfied at the evil it could create.

"Why couldn't you stay away from me?"

"Why…? Because I missed your touch, of course," she answered, as if it were obvious. "Can you not say the same thing?"

"I did not miss you," he seethed. "I chose this life over one with you."

"A man cannot choose his life," she chuckled. "Did you not teach me that lesson so long ago? You think yourself above humanity…and you accuse me of vanity?"

"You are less than human, hiding behind a child," he spat. "Killing someone who would never have done you harm, who would never—"

"Never done me harm? You are blind, Hohenheim, or deluded. She did me the most egregious of harm by stealing you away from me."

"_I_ left," he screamed. "_Me_! She did nothing to you Dante! _Nothing_!"

"Perceive it however you wish," she said calmly. "We are left with a situation not so different than the perfect life we once envisioned. A healthy child between us, living in a community that respects and adores our family…can you walk away from that? Can you forget what you once wanted so badly, so easily?"

"You have corrupted it all, Dante," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "But you still cannot see that, can you? You will never understand."

A long silence passed between the two, and it took every bit of strength in him to finally break it.

"Give me my son, and I shall be on my way," he said.

"Your son," she scoffed. "It seems it is you will never understand, Hohenheim. That boy came from me; I birthed him, not you. I bore the anguish of childbirth so that he could live in this world. And if necessary…"

His eyes widened at her tone, and he truly knew fear in that moment.

"I would," she said coldly. "I would rather my son die than be burdened with one so self-righteous as you."

"You would not dare," he said, but his voice faltered as the words came out.

"Have you not realized yet," she began, staring fully into his frightened eyes. "That I will do _any_thing to further my plans?"

--

Snow fell on the mountain that night, gently caking the sleeping valley with endless white. Even in the darkness there was light born, shimmering off the high slopes with an electricity he found oddly comforting. Looking back at his tracks, lone and heavy in the fresh powder, sadness and guilt threatened to overcome him.

He had left his only son with a monster. Granted, she had all the outward appearances of a vibrant and beautiful young woman, but he knew that would not last, and she would again steal from one on the cusp of a full life. But he had no alternative; had he taken William, she would hunt them to the ends of the earth, slaying and plundering as she needed to punish him, purely out of spite. She would know no limits to exact her vengeance, and he could not allow that to happen. A good father had to know when to let go, just as his had.

But there was one thing he had taken from her, something more valuable than her own son's love. It glistened in his hands, the dull glow of red nearly faded. Soon it would die, and he with it. And if Hohenheim had his way, perhaps Dante would join them.

* * *

_Note: My favorite part about this section was writing Dante's letter. I don't know why, but it just came easily to me. I realize Dante took a bit of a plunge in the sanity department this chapter, but she's been stewing in her rejection for about five years at this point, adequate time to go a bit bonkers. _

_In case you're wondering, I took the name of Elise's great aunt, "Kayide" from Inuyasha's Kaede. Also, sped up Dante's aging a bit. Wanted Hohenheim/Denton to spend a few seasons at the village, maybe a year, but in that time, Dante has aged terribly in the years since he left. This one was a whopper of a chapter in terms of length, but I hope you found it interesting. Future installments should be much shorter, and as a result, sooner._


	13. The Road Taken

_Interlude  
__**The Road Taken**_

The village elders could not believe he was gone. The young man had ingratiated himself into their ranks, earning their trust, only to betray it at the first sign of real responsibility. None had seen it coming, least of all his heartbroken wife, labored with a young baby to raise on her own.

There were no kind words uttered for the missing father. A few of the men gathered up weapons, ready to punish and return the absentee man. Elise was like family to them; she had seen them through the hardest trials of their lives, and now it was their turn to return the debt. At first she had resisted, pleading with them that she wanted no part in forcing him to stay, but as the days passed, she finally relented, asking them to seek out her wayward husband.

It was no coincidence that this coincided with her discovery of the missing Stone, her impotent fuming rage threatening to consume her. Though she would need the Stone for her next body, she also knew there were many places to create one. Why, even if the situation became desperate enough, the village would more than suffice, she thought with a bitter smile.

Her disappearance came soon afterwards, unannounced and without warning. There was no letter left behind, no explanation. The old woman Kayide sensed something amiss, however, and spent the remainder of her days searching for the last of her family. Ultimately she would die on her journey, alone, without comfort or answers.

--

His life as a hermit began the day he left. It was not a life he embraced wholeheartedly, recognizing the longings in his heart for social interaction and comfort, but it was the life he understood was for the best. With no one to ask questions, his work could resume where he left off. No one to worry about, no more innocents to watch suffer and die for his lost cause. It was a lonely time.

He stayed close to the mountains; even Dante, with all her resources and skills, could not hope to find him within the confines of that dense region. It was still risky, however, as he knew other villagers had braved the dangerous gaps and fiords of the valley in his pursuit. The people would hate him, revile him, despise him. Though it was not a distinction he particularly enjoyed, it was one he was growing more and more accustomed to.

--

They caught up her in the field beside the main road. She had spotted the blockade miles away, but underestimated the tenacity of the military men. They snatched her baby away, eyeing her appreciatively after pinning her down. Rage was replaced by fear, seeing these dirty sweaty men leering at her from above.

"Release her at once," came an order from behind them. The men stiffened at the voice, immediately assuming the proper military stances.

"What's going on here," asked their captain, striding towards them as he sheathed his sword. "I hear a woman scream, and this is what I find?"

"Captain Greeley, sir," bowed one of his men. "This woman sought to elude the roadblock. We were merely pursuing her."

"So it seems," he said, kneeling before the frightened woman. His dark hair rose in short spikes, and his thoughtful eyes betrayed a wiry, confident strength. "Are you okay, miss," he asked, helping her up. Unlike his officers, he was clean-shaven and immaculately attired. One had to wonder if he was even in the same unit as those filthy faced men.

She nodded, straightening her tousled hair with a defiant air. "And what are you going to do about _your_ men," she asked angrily.

"Rest assured, they shall be disciplined," said the captain, his eyes sparkling. "Perhaps I can provide you with a hot meal and bath to make up for this…misunderstanding."

"And my baby?"

"Tsk, tsk," chided the captain smoothly, his eyes never leaving the girl by his side. "A baby and still you men attacked her. We shall speak of this later," he said briskly, guiding her towards their camp.

--

The river stream dribbled its way down the gray brown stones, clean and serene as the untouched valley. Fish floated past, dead and bloated. He saw the boy crouched by the river's edge, hunched over in pain. Where the water once ran clean, a muddy current had polluted its way into it, caking the riverbank with a dark, viscous substance.

After long deliberation he finally emerged from the underbrush, striding over to the sick boy. He did some cursory vital checks, and finding most in order, carried the unconscious boy back to his hut. The boy was young, no more than ten, and frail for a child of the mountains. Bony arms swung askew as he spirited his burden to safety.

Looking at the sleeping boy, he couldn't help but feel a bit nostalgic. Was this how Kayide and Elise felt when they found him all those years ago? Sick, near death, with nothing in the world save a tenuous hold on his life? And how fragile now looked the boy, tucked under the comfort of his thick quilts. The man thought of his son, somewhere out there, hopefully warm and safe.

--

"Again, I apologize for my men," said the officer, pouring her a tall glass of wine. "They have a tendency to go above and beyond the call of duty…an attribute usually appreciated here in the military, you understand."

"And what exactly is the military doing out here, Captain Greeley?"

"Please, please," he said, waving his hand. "Gabriel, if you will…Gabe, even."

"Very well," she said, sipping her wine daintily after seeing him drink his. "What is the military doing out here, Gabriel?"

"Searching for suspected…terrorists," he replied smoothly. "And why did you feel the need to skirt the checkpoint, miss…?"

"It's missus," she said coolly. "I was traveling eastwards to visit family, and felt I had no need to explain myself to the likes of you."

"I see," he said, swirling the wine in his glass. "Your husband is a fool to let such an attractive creature as yourself roam about this area on her lonesome, much less with a baby in tow."

"Even barbarians deplore violence when a child is close at hand."

He laughed gustily. "You have a lot to learn, my dear…still, it is not my place to tell you where to go, or how to do it, but I beseech you to at the very least find a capable bodyguard. It shall only get harder upon you as you head eastward."

"I am hardier than I appear," she said through clenched teeth.

"So it seems," he said, eyeing her over again. "If you have not heard, the eastern lands are in much turmoil; it is not the region you may be familiar with, judging from your…ah, background."

"Is it the bandits? Or the Ishbalans again?"

"Take your pick," he replied. "If either were to get their hands on you, I doubt there would be anything left to speak of."

"The Ishbalans may fight with the tenacity of demons, but they will not harm an innocent woman, or her baby."

As she spoke, the captain's eyes wandered to the ridge beyond his tent's flaps, the glow of his men's fires twinkling in the twilight.

"War changes people," he said, his eyes distant. "To fight us back as they have, they must have traded their souls over to the Devil himself. You look different from them; that is all they will need to persecute you and your son to the harshest of degrees."

She sighed. "And what man can I trust? What man will take nothing to guide a woman to such a dangerous land?"

He looked at her in surprise, as if the answer were obvious. "Why, me of course."

--

"I trust you least of all," she said, pushing her plate away. The food remained untouched.

"You wound me," he replied, playfully holding a hand to his chest. "I am a man of position, of honor—"

"You are a dog of the military," she shot back.

"You misunderstand," he said lightly. "If I desired your soft, sweet-scented flesh, I could simply take it now. Nothing you said or did could stop me. But I do not, do I?"

"All part of your game," she said, turning away.

"Game," he asked innocently.

"You take on the role of protector and provider for me and my boy, with the purest of intentions. We begin to count on you, depend on you. Then, when the time is right, you threaten to take it all away. With only my body to barter, you have me completely, mind body and soul," she said succinctly. "You want to have your cake and eat it too."

He laughed, his eyes wide with wonder. "You, my dear, are the most suspicious, jaded, and…insightful woman I have ever met."

"So your game is up," she said. "Greedy as you are, you always want more," she added, waving her hand across his tent of valuable possessions. "It shall be your downfall someday, Captain."

"You are simply too cute for words," he said, standing. "If my game is up, what is to keep me from taking what I want now that my 'game' is up?"

"Because you have this silly notion that you are a gentleman's scoundrel," she answered calmly, admiring the stitching on one of his finely tailored suits hanging by the table. "You aspire so fully to it that you actually believe it."

"We are a dying breed," he said, bowing graciously. "But there is still the matter of your attempt to elude the roadblock, miss. Before I…let you go, you must tell me why."

"I told you already," she said angrily.

"A lie for a lie," he said, his eyebrow arching as he stepped towards her. "No self-respecting man would allow someone like you to travel alone, much less a husband."

"Tell me whom that roadblock was set up for," she said, stiffening at his nearness. "And then I shall answer your question."

"You are in no position to make demands, miss," he said, touching her face lightly. "While you may have been correct about me, you would be wise to not think so highly of my men," he added, turning her face abruptly towards the camp beyond. "I doubt they will be as…gracious as I."

"I-my husband…he disappeared recently, and I got so worried," she began, her eyes welling up with tears. "I just had to try and find him, no matter what," she said.

"And why did you not ask my men of your husband possibly traveling through?"

"He-he is a criminal, Gabe, wanted by the authorities all over," she wept. "I did not want to give away his location to the authorities…"

The hard part in his eyes cracked, his body language softening towards her. She felt his sympathetic hand on her back, trying to rub away her tears, and she smiled into her hands. This man was putty to her; all it took was a few crocodile tears.

"Men such as he do not deserve women like you," he said gently. "Turn back, head to your home; I am sure the people who truly do love you are waiting…and worried."

"I cannot," she said, wiping away the tears. "A boy must know his father."

"A boy must have a mother too," he said. "Your son deserves a life without such a man posing as a figure of respect…I tell you what; give me his name, and I shall find him for you, off the record. No one shall know why."

"In exchange for…?"

He held his hands up. "You caught me," he said with a wry smile. "No woman has ever caught on to me, and so quickly, at that. I…respect that. Just…just tell me your name, forget the circumstances of how you were here, and we will call it even."

"Dante," she finally said. "My name is Dante."

His brow arched at her words. "And your missing husband…?"

"H-his name is Denton," she replied, but she saw something suspicious flicker in his eye.

"You want to know the real reason we are out here, Dante," he asked, shuffling some papers into a folder. "We are looking for alchemists."

"You mean witches?"

"Call them what you like," he said lightly. "But if we find even one, I will probably be awarded a promotion…"

"I had no idea the military had taken to burning heretics, much less rewarded officers for such a menial task."

He laughed. "No, not to burn," he said. "To recruit."

A thought occurred to her. "To fight your Ishbalan front."

"Nothing so glamorous," he denied. "Here, look at this," he said, handing her a thin piece of curved metal.

"What is this," she asked, suddenly interested in what he had to say. The metal was lighter and stronger than any she had ever seen.

"It is a brand new technology our scientists are working on," he answered. "See, if a regular soldier takes a sword or shrapnel to his heart, he will die. But that there…that will stop such an attack."

"Your new technology is armor," she scoffed. "No wonder you are losing your war."

He smiled. "Not so simple as armor, for armor is heavy, it can rust, it is cumbersome in desert warfare. That, however…that will someday be placed under our skin, to become part of our bodies. Imagine bones reinforced with metal, vital organs shielded by the finest tempered steel. They are calling it 'under-mail'."

"That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard," she said, making no effort to mask her contempt. "Metal would still be heavy under the skin; in fact, it will more likely cause infection and corrosion of the metal due to the blood's element—"

"And here we thought you were dead, Dante," he interrupted, leaning towards her with a satisfied smile. He snatched back the metal piece, tossing it casually aside.

"I do not know what you speak of," she said, but his confidence told her he already knew the truth.

"I must say, I am impressed," he said. "The reports did you no justice, or your mother, or whoever the hell the first Dante was…frankly, I don't give a damn which Dante you are, but if I knew what you looked like before today, I would have been looking a hell of a lot harder…"

"You are mistaken," she insisted.

He waved his hand. "There is no use denying it," he said, lighting a cigarette. "And really, this is a good thing for you. Your research can continue, with no limitations, no budgets, and we'll provide you with everything you could ever need. Your son of course will be well taken care of, and most importantly, safe."

She sighed. "If I were to admit I was this 'Dante' you speak of, what would you say if she had more important research to find in the east?"

"Our resources are just as vast," he countered, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

"But your knowledge is not," she argued. "There is a city to the west wholly dedicated to the alchemic arts; there, everyone is a master."

"I have heard of no such city," he said, his interest rising.

She scoffed. "Why would you? The true face of Xing is unknown to even those who live within its walls."

"That is a great distance away, Dante," he said, stroking his chin. "We could lose you rather easily in such a vast region…"

"There is great power there, Greeley, I can feel it," she said, her eyes bright.

"Very well," he finally sighed. "You may go eastward for your research—"

"Thank you," she interrupted with a bow. "You will not re—"

"But your son stays," he finished patiently. "I shall find a home for him until your return, Dante, which we shall both eagerly await."

"You cannot…you cannot do that," she said weakly, her heart sinking.

"You misunderstand," he said again, grinding out his cigarette unceremoniously. "I already have."

--

The hermit's bitter medicines and tender ministrations had the boy up by nightfall. The night was darker, masked by the thick clouds that had settled over the area of late. Many of the farmers blamed their dead crops on the darkness, while those of a more superstitious lot proclaimed it a harbinger of evil.

The hermit heard none of these claims, however, focused instead on the dark veil that had blanketed itself across the region. His research had led him to this area, trailing the symptoms of the plague to the epicenter.

One look at the upper ridges of the mountain told the whole story. Even the weeds struggled to survive there, the faint wisps of greenery turned slate gray. Dust clung to withered tree trunks; bark peeling like dead skin. It was quite puzzling; after all, what would be a better place to bask in the sunlight than a mountaintop?

"The mountain is dying," the boy finally spoke. His accent was light, as if he had spent a good amount of time beyond the mountains' range.

"Where is your village," asked the man. "Close by?"

The boy nodded, making no effort to rise from the pallet. "Most of the people are dead," he said grimly. "Both young and old have been afflicted."

"What can you tell me of the plague?"

"What anyone else can," he shrugged. "It came suddenly, without warning of any kind…plants and pets dying, our old growing deathly ill…until everyone was hurting."

"Were there any strangers, or unusual people in the area?"

"Not that I know of," he said, shaking his head. "I have heard legends of entire cities to the east falling under a plague, destroying entire races…are they true?"

"It is as you said," shrugged the man. "They are legends, spread by mouth, changed and exaggerated for effect."

"And what of the city Xing?"

"What know you of such a place," asked the hermit abruptly, visibly shaken by the boy's knowledge. "Such a place does not exist!"

"Exists no longer, you mean," said the boy knowingly. "Vanished in a night without a trace. Just as our village shall disappear…"

"Where did you hear of such a tale," asked the stranger, his eyes flaring hotly.

"The people of the lower towns speak of nothing but that, ever since the sun was blotted out and the plague came."

"You traveled such a distance on your own?"

"I am no child," said the boy angrily.

"My mistake," smiled the hermit faintly. "I have a son about your age out there; I imagine him saying very much the same thing."

"And where is he now?"

"I do not know," he said quietly. "And I doubt he cares to find out."

"Oh," said the boy, fingering a nearby clay bowl. "What medicines did you give me," asked the boy suddenly. "Perhaps you have more for the other villagers…?"

"It would be of no use," replied the man. "They would fall ill soon again afterwards."

"But this is better than anything else we have tried," argued the boy. "At least…at least tell us how to make it."

"I…I cannot," he said slowly. "I am sorry."

"We would pay you whatever we could for it," he said bitterly. "Anything we have, you can take."

"You give away the possessions of others rather easily," said the hermit, stirring a bubbling pot. "But that is not the reason I cannot help."

"Then why," fumed the boy.

"That medicine was made with a heathen science forbidden by your people; they would never allow for the use of it."

"That is nonsense," shouted the boy, rising from his bed. "We are not so prideful to suffer needlessly!"

The man shrugged, angering the boy further. Grabbing the hermit by his collar, the boy pushed and pulled at him, struggling to shake some sense into the much larger man.

"Tell it to me then, and I shall make it," he cried. "Then I will not tell them where it came from!"

"It is not so simple a task," said the man. "I cannot."

"You mean you _will_ not," wept the boy, punching him weakly in the chest. "You could help us, but you choose not to!"

"I understand what you are feeling, but—"

"Understand? You could never understand what it means to lose everything you know! Your family, your friends…your homeland? Unable to do anything but watch as someone with the power to help does nothing!"

The boy ran to the door, tears streaming down his face. "Your cowardice sickens me, hermit. It is no wonder you are out here alone, with a son uninterested in knowing you. Maybe you are the true plague visited upon us, your cowardice infecting everything good in our valleys!"

After the boy was gone, he sat and stirred the fire.

"I'm a good man," he whispered, his damp eyes lost in the flame. "Aren't I?"

The flames died away, hot cinders flickering away to ash. Soon there was nothing left of the fire.

* * *

_Note: I got the "city" name of Xing from the FMA manga, of which I have little knowledge other than what's summarized on wikipedia. Xing in the manga is actually an entire country, but I decided it would be the place of Dante's first attempt at the Philosopher's Stone (or her manipulating another to do it) in this storyline. This section was originally supposed to be dedicated to Hohenheim, but I decided to give Dante some alone time, so to speak. The events of this section are actually spread out over many years. Lots of faces and names to remember as well…_

_This was originally longer, but I trimmed it and split it into two parts. Dante gets her road laid out for the next few years, and we see Hohenheim quite a few years after leaving the village. The next chapter will be his interlude. _


	14. Hohenheim of Light

_Interlude 2_; **Hohenheim of Light**

The murky water swirled around him as he waded through the quiet river. Chunks of gooey red matter collected at his hips, and the miasma reeked, even through his carefully constructed breathing mask. It was acrid, the pungent odor assailing his nostrils, reminding him of melted sulfur and half-cooked corpses.

The boy's words still rang in his ears, his tearful accusations burning at his being. He had only helped the boy in the hopes of filling the void William had left, and even then he had managed to screw things up. The boy instead reminded him of his responsibilities, of his self-imposed requirement to at the very least try and make the world a better place.

The valley was suffering. He had seen it himself, seen the fauna decay and the animals fall from disease. He had heard the birds in the morning less and less, no longer the rhythmic chirp of the crickets in the evening.

Even the flow of the river seemed to be dying. What was once a strong current filled with only the healthiest of fish, now babbled weakly. Now, dead fish floated by him, bodies bloated and eyes bleeding. They were like the ones he had studied earlier, their small teeth rotted away, their gills caked with the red plasma.

He had almost been hungry enough to still eat them. The pangs of hunger were thankfully sated with some careful alchemy, but he imagined the villagers who lived off the river could not afford the same luxury.

Again he felt the guilt cloud his heart. Since the boy had stormed from his hut, he could hardly take a step without thinking of his caustic words, his claims' pinpoint accuracy.

The water grew thicker, cloudier, as he traveled upstream. The mouth of a small cave loomed before him, and he did not hesitate as he strode against the current and into its dark entrance.

He paused instead within the cave's maw, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Though he carried a flint in his satchel with the means to fashion a torch or lantern, he feared the chemical elements in the cave could include dangerous explosive gases. And so he strode on without light, into the deepening darkness.

--

The rocky terrain beneath the water began to ease, stones smoothed by countless years of water flow polishing their surface. Though the cave's mouth had been pitch black, as he continued his path up the river, the water seemed to almost glow with a faint luminescence. Shimmering water inched towards his chest, and he worried the cave's roof would soon dip beneath the water. No matter how well he had constructed his protective gear, there was no way he could survive a complete submersion without being tainted by the malignant liquid.

The waters grew rough as he felt the ground begin to gradually incline before him. The noise of the flowing water was nearly deafening in such close quarters, the rumbling sound echoing off cavern walls and in his skull. Confronted with the first hardship of his perilous journey, he pushed forward with a weary sigh.

The glow became brighter as he ascended. Soon the entire cavern was bathed in a dim bloodish hue. While the light was indeed a useful guide, he could not deny its sinister quality, foreboding against the settling gloom.

Faint wisps of red danced against the craggy walls, the water's dull glow intensifying as he climbed higher and higher. The air grew thinner but the thick musk persisted, the rank odor assailing his senses.

Little by little he could feel his mask giving way, the noxious fumes beginning to penetrate its defenses. Small tears dotted the suit, the gaping holes stretching with the waters' current. He was not sure how much longer the armor would hold out. It was too late to turn back now, he thought, pressing onward.

--

It was three hours later that he met the dead end. The churning rapids seemed to burst from below, the chalky white foam impenetrable to his eyes. It was unimportant what he could and could not see, however, since the cavern's roof dipped under the deadly water. He contemplated using alchemy to reshape the cavern, but feared altering its natural course, which might cause the structure to collapse.

The darkness settled about him, muffling all sights and sounds. He felt cold for the first time since beginning his exploration of the water source, despite the warmth of the waters. His probing hands soon felt rocky crags jutting from the cavern's walls, above the current. Digging his fingers into the jagged crevices, he pulled himself upwards, towards the stone shelf nestled above the rapids.

Soaking wet clothing hampered his climb; what few handgrips he could find were more often than not jagged and sharp. His fingers oozed blood, trickling down his elbows and dripping into the rumbling water below. He collapsed on the stone cropping hours later, exhausted by his efforts, longing for clean air to breath.

It was only after discarding the suit entirely that he saw the sliver of light. A hundred feet above him, he was certain he saw sunlight peeking through a narrow crack in the cavern's ceiling.

An idea occurred to him then, the first thought of hope since the ordeal began.

His ascension to the top of the cavern was speeded by this newfound hope. Ignoring the sulfur taste in his mouth, the bloody stumps of his fingers, and the ache of his exhausted muscles, he climbed onwards and upwards.

Night had fallen by the time he breached the crack, wiggling his thick frame through the opening. Darkness hung over the mountain like a veil, its murky shroud masking even the moon and stars from the people below.

He could not allow this to happen. Preparations complete, he began.

Red mist seeped from beneath him, pouring out of the opening and disappearing into the night breeze. The ground shook as pressure built, air thinning as he slowly created a vacuum. The marks he had drawn into each of the walls below began to shine, the light buried by the building steam.

The water churned as if it was boiling, violent and turbulent like a raging sea. Little by little he could feel the water changing, bending to his will. He wavered ever so slightly at the thought, a million gallons of gushing water responding to his every whim. It was a rush he had not felt in many years, not since he and Dante had created a water source for her people.

Columns of water formed, cyclones of twisting red water shuddering as they clung loosely together. Perspiration dripped down his face in muddy streaks, trembling from the vast energies pouring through him.

In the middle of the cave's chamber the water began to collect, the immense pressure in the room forcing every drop of the red water towards the center. The globe of water spun wildly, drops of water spraying from the force but turning to mist before touching anything else.

Higher and higher rose the water, nearing the mountains' roof. The crack widened, bending before shattering outwards in an explosion loud enough to shake the ground throughout the region. But few would remember the earth moving compared to what happened next.

Grasping the massive red energy in shaking hands, the hermit pushed the shape high above his head, bending it with his hands as much with his mind. The energies invigorating him, he held the light aloft as it grew brighter and brighter. The intensity of the light was more than he could bear, seeing the brilliant red light through clenched eyes. Creatures of the night shrank in fear before the growing light, expanding to the furthest reaches of the mountain range. Soon the entire valley was bathed in the light, brighter than a cloudless summer day's noon, washing away the darkness.

And where the light touched, life came. Plant stalks trampled and broken bent back into shape to face the sky unflinchingly. Leaves sprouted from bare tree limbs, mushrooms from the damp earth. Even the people who stumbled from the safety of their homes felt it, though fearful at first. They felt the sickness fade, their lungs clean as the new air around them. Sick children basked in the light, injuries and worries vanishing as they always should for a child.

And above them all, high in the mountains, stood the hermit who brought the light.

--

His journey back down the mountain proved nearly as difficult as the ascent, hounded by the gathering crowds who swarmed in the hopes of witnessing another miracle. He kept to the forgotten paths, amidst the thick underbrush to avoid detection.

But there was one person he could not escape. He sat in the hermit's hut, poking the fire with a heavy stick.

"You have done well, hermit," said the boy over his shoulder. "Few can make me look so foolish."

"You do not know enough people then," said the hermit grumpily, setting down his bag.

"I probably deserve that," grinned the boy. "I am sorry for what I said to you…about your son. Any boy would be proud to call you father."

"And what have I done to deserve this," asked the man, sitting down heavily in his chair.

"Why, you saved the valley," replied the boy. "I saw you; we all did."

"Oh," said the hermit tiredly.

"Indeed," said the boy, surprised by the hermit's modesty. "Your magic is as powerful as you said."

"So have you come to beg me to teach you?"

The boy shook his head. "Nay, hermit. It is as you said; such things are forbidden by my people. Better to live a simple life, wouldn't you say?"

The man grunted. "We should all be so lucky…why then are you here?"

"I came here to give you my—our thanks. And…I also came to ask you why you are here, in hiding; that is all I have come for."

"That is everything to a humble hermit," said the man. "The reason we are what we are is not to be shared, nor told."

"You are no hermit, to save the lives of people you do not know. A true hermit would have done nothing to interfere in the lives of others."

"And only bad shall come of this, you shall see," said the hermit. "Things done for the good of the many become tainted, boy…polluted by the selfishness of the few."

"But good can come from bad as well, no?"

"It depends on how hard one looks to justify the bad."

"You have lived a hard life, hermit, I can tell," noted the boy, staring back into the fire. "But remember that you are not the only one who has."

The hermit opened his mouth to retort, but something in the boys' eyes as they looked into the fire made him reconsider. Perhaps he saw something familiar in them, something sad that he understood far better than he could ever say. And so he said nothing.

"At the very least, tell me your name," asked the boy as he stood at the door. "Tell me, and I shall never trouble you again."

"It is…my name, is Hohenheim," said the man slowly.

"Hohenheim," smiled the boy. "I am Petri Kale, of the northern valley."

"Farewell then, Petri Kale of the northern valley," said Hohenheim.

"Farewell," returned the boy with a slight bow. "Farewell…Hohenheim of Light."

And so began anew the legend of Hohenheim of Light, spread by the excited word of a young boy from the mountain valley. Far and wide did his legend spread, the story of hope and rebirth brought by a name once associated with only death and destruction.

* * *

_Note: This chapter was a big time chore to write. Little dialogue at the beginning, and the whole idea of walking through a dark cave was just uninteresting to me from the start. The only thing that kept me going was the image of Hohenheim standing on the mountain, holding the red water sphere and healing the valley. I liked that one a lot. Reminds me of that scene from Lloyd Alexander's finale for The Prydain series, when the princess has to light up the valley to alert her friends. Those were my favorite books as a kid; check it out if you're interested at all in fantasy stories. They're all very short, quick, and fun._

_This was originally intended as the main interlude, but I got caught up with Dante's update that it took on a life of its own. The next chapter bridges the 'modern era' of the FMA universe, at least in theory. More importantly, it should connect the FMA manga and anime; you'll have to tune in to see what I mean. _


	15. Dogs

**Dogs**

"Welcome back, Greeley," greeted his superior officer gruffly. "I am glad to see you made it back from the Ishbalan front in one piece."

"Not half as glad as me," he said, calmly running his hand through his spiky hair after saluting the officer. "Those bastards are getting brasher by the day."

"They believe they are fighting for a higher power; it is something we haven't had to deal with in years."

"Yes," nodded Greeley absently. "Wars of faith can be such a hassle…our soldiers fight for three square meals a day and a monthly stipend, while they fight for a seat in heaven."

"And you, Greeley? What do you fight for," asked the husky man, eyeing his subordinate carefully.

The smaller man shrugged noncommittally. "I fight so my superior officers do not have to, General Armstrong."

"Always the right answer, eh Colonel," laughed the general. "We could have used that silver tongue of yours when public opinion was not on our side."

"That was before they pushed us back over the border, right," asked Greeley. "I imagine the thought of those red-eyed jackals closing in on their homes changed their minds a bit…"

"Indeed," nodded Armstrong. "While our defeats have won the people to our cause, they are still defeats. What can you tell me about the eastern front?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course, Gabriel…I appreciate your candor above all others."

"It is a pointless battle, Thatcher," replied the weary Colonel. "Even if we were to destroy their armies, we would not win the war. Their people are firmly entrenched in the notion that they are the children of god. For us to invade and kill…we are only validating their claims to martyrdom, no matter how just our cause is."

The General nodded slowly at his friend's words, turning his chair away.

"I have heard it all before," he said tiredly. "But I don't suppose you came all the way out here to tell me something I already knew."

"You see too easily through me, General," said Greeley smoothly. "I came to ask a favor of you…would you support William's application to the Academy?"

"Ah yes…William," said the General, stroking his chin. "He's a fine boy, Gabriel. But are you sure he would be a good fit at the Academy?"

"I only know that is what he wants."

"And tell me Gabriel…what is it _you_ want from his mother?"

"Her work," he replied without batting an eye. "Her work could turn the tide in the war, and future wars."

"Indeed, her work would be useful…had we access to it."

"She will return, Thatcher…trust me on that. What mother would leave her only son behind?"

"You mean the same mother who has left him here for nearly a decade?"

"Something may have happened to her…"

"And is that why you volunteered to spearhead the Ishbalan front? To find her?"

"You think too much of me," said Greeley modestly. "If she is lost, it is my fault, and no one else's. It is the least I can do to help."

"Save your despair, old friend," began the General with the faintest trace of a smile. "Your precious Dante returned to us but a week ago."

--

"William," boomed the large man's voice, echoing off the walls of a long corridor.

"Yeah," replied the boy, running from behind a finely polished mahogany door. "Uh, I mean, yes sir," he added, throwing out his best impression of a military salute.

"Have you finished the work I laid out for you?"

"Um, not quite, General…sir."

"Is it because you were playing?"

"No, General…of course not, sir."

"Tell me the truth, William."

"Ah…yes sir," he said quietly, hanging his head in shame. "I just got distracted is all…sir."

"William," said General Armstrong, kneeling before the boy. "Gabriel came to me today, asking me to endorse your admittance to the Academy. Is that still what you want?"

"Yes sir," said the boy, straightening. "I wish to fight under Colonel Greeley someday, maybe even you if I am lucky."

"The Colonel is to return to the Ishbalan front at my request, much to his dismay," said the General. "Battle is a terrible thing, my boy; war, even worse. Trust those of us who have seen it."

"But when you spoke before my class, you told us that who we are in battle is who we are in life. You said facing difficulty defines us, like in bat—"

"I know what I said," said Armstrong firmly, setting a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "We need soldiers, son. And I do not think you should be one of them. We face challenges everyday that are not necessarily constrained to the battlefield. You shall face adversity elsewhere, young William, and I am confident you shall overcome them."

The boy's face cracked, hanging with a disappointment familiar to anyone who had lived through a broken heart. Soon came restrained, reluctant tears, and the General knew then that he had made the right decision.

--

The boy was crushed, his only dream snatched away by the one man who could grant it to him. Without the General's recommendation, his dream of becoming an officer in the military vanished. Such was the lot of young boys, this one particularly burdened by a sense of misguided loyalty for the state that had provided for him since his infancy.

None of the other boys seemed to even notice his despondency, laughing and playing as usual. Boys who had looked up to him, called him friend, and fought for him simply had other things to fill their time. Concern for a peer's emotional distress was hardly something the instructors of the facility encouraged.

They would all make it into the Academy, he thought with a tinge of bitterness. And that surprised him, for the years of his short life had been spent encouraging and loving all those around to him.

Only Greeley seemed to care, visiting later that day before his deployment back into the field.

"So I see Armstrong came to speak with you already," said the man as he entered the room, seeing the distraught expression on the boy's face.

"Yes, he did," sighed the boy. "Am I really that weak? I am stronger than half the boys here, and smart as any of them."

"You are not weak," Greeley said, shaking his head. "The General made the right call, William. As skilled and talented as you are, you would be a hard fit in the military."

"Why am I so difficult," asked the boy. "What is so terrible about me that puts others at risk?"

"Your concern for others, perhaps," suggested the man. "No matter what it is, it is nothing you can change; try and think of it for the better."

"Easy for you to say," moped the boy. "You didn't have your dream crushed."

"We have all lost dreams, William," soothed Greeley.

"And what do you do when it happens?"

"We cope," he shrugged. "There are no easy answers. Your mother taught me that a long time ago."

"My mother…they told me she has returned."

"You haven't gone to see her yet?"

The boy shook his head. "They told me she is recovering in the infirmary, to let her rest."

"Is she okay," he asked, the concern clearly written across his face.

"They told me nothing else," said the boy, but he could see the man's thoughts were already elsewhere. "What can you tell me of her?"

"She…she is an amazing woman, your mother," said Greeley. "Brilliant and strong…outspoken and brave. You know, she is also one of the few true alchemists left in the world, some even say she was one of the first."

"Alchemy? She was an alchemist?"

"And still is, no doubt," said the man as he rose to leave. "Ask her yourself when she's fully recovered. Alas, I will not have the opportunity, so tell her I…send my best."

"Of course, Gabe," nodded the boy. After his friend had left, William realized it was the first time he could remember not saluting a departing officer. And oddly, he felt fine about it. But that thought was quickly replaced with fantastic fantasies of alchemy. Maybe that was to be his calling.

--

The rest of the day was spent in the library, as the next and the next. Though filled end to end and floor to ceiling with dusty tomes and leather bound volumes, the boy found little on the subject of alchemy. Witness accounts conflicted, opinions differing as to the basis of the documented miracles.

No book could even define the subject with any type of distinction. Definitions seemed to vary with the time period, the first accounts dating back hundreds of years. He researched the first accounts of witchcraft, hoping to find a consistency between them, but those were filled with such wild claims that he immediately dismissed them.

And so his days went, studying and researching by dim candlelight, desperately seeking a connection to those that had brought him into this world, and who had left him behind.

--

Their first meeting was awkward. He had so much he wanted to ask his mother, so many questions that they jumbled in his head, keeping him from asking even one. She too, had difficulty speaking, though hers stemmed from an arduous journey across sand dunes large as oceans.

When he finally did find the words he sought, the boy asked of his father. His mother smiled wanly at his curiosity, settling it by wordlessly handing him an aged journal. Wound with fraying leather strips, the brown color streaked and spotty from time, he could tell it was indeed old.

"This…is this my father's," he asked, his small hands lingering on the worn face.

She nodded, laying her head back against the soft pillows. Since her return, she had been granted every luxury possible, the military clamoring to welcome their pet project back home with open arms. Dante seemed to notice none of this, however, her eyes vague and distant; eyes that had seen too much.

"What kind of man was he," asked the boy, flipping through the creased pages. So much to read, he thought to himself; so much to discover.

In reply, she pointed towards the journal he held so tightly. A hand, burning with fever, touched his wrist, and his eyes met hers. Behind those cloudy orbs he saw lifetimes of pain and suffering, loneliness and misery. But whatever he saw in those eyes disappeared when she blinked, and she was soon fast asleep.

--

The journal's pages were wrinkled, withered. Decaying with age, he had trouble believing that the stained yellow pages had ever been white.

Dates were vague, only the days listed. Entries were jumbled, sporadic, ideas jumping off the page into other entries found years later. He thought the diary would explain everything, but instead he found himself confronted with a more challenging puzzle. Who had his father been? There was no doubt to his brilliance, evident by simply flipping through the first pages of detailed notations and incisive observations.

But things broke down as he got further; once precise notes degraded to endless rambling, the questions and doubts of morality disappearing altogether. As if everything he had researched and discovered had been turned upside down in one cataclysmic moment.

And then he found the page. Stained and spotted with dark blots, the boy understood his father at last.

"The day has come as I have waited for it, we have waited for it. She stands by my side, smiling and happy, selling her loyalty and faith in humanity to me like a starving street vendor. All the while unaware of her despair. Her people, like all, are despicable in their bloodlust. They care not for the crimes our people are to be killed for. If the executions are stopped, they will demand blood be paid by another. They care not for innocence. They would burn a helpless child if they had provocation. They would burn it and call it righteous. They would dance as the flames rose into the sky, flesh searing from bone in a black plume of death. Flesh turned to ash to rise and fall to the sandy earth.

And I…I am no different. I see the people around me as fuel, fodder for my goal. For every curse they hurl at my people, I hunger more for their hatred. For it vindicates my cause, it validates the taking of their lives. I shall kill them all, and I say to myself over and over again that it is for the best. Heaven help me, they will all die tomorrow by my h—"

The entry stopped there, abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted. After a page, it resumed:

"She told me everything this night, smearing the truth of her lies with weeping tears and wails of forgiveness. I could not find it in myself to forgive her; I doubt any man could. Even now, calm as the desert night, my heart burns with anger for her.

I thought of the hospital this night for the first time in years. So long ago…so many years gone past. It is strange, how quickly we pass through the years of our lives, when the days go by so slowly. I see those days, frozen in my memories, sweeter and truer than they have any right to be. Suffering surrounded me then. Perhaps I am preparing for that again. Or perhaps my mind knows that what I aim to do is wrong, and summons images of the better times to remind me of what I am risking…but I push that thought aside as easily as I do my conscience.

The tool is still dewy wet with the pregnant woman's blood. The sand cuts easily in its wake, the flow smooth and perfect, almost as if my hand is guided by another power. Part of me fears the blood seeping into the seal, the other, bigger part longing to see what will happen. Blood makes it all stronger. Our bonds, our ties…blood blurs the boundaries of what we know and what we fear.

The circle is complete, subtle enough that only a bird might notice it from above. I have seen to every detail; even the wooden stakes have transmutation markers carved neatly into the rough bark. I had once worried that the workers might notice it, but the impending bloodlust will mask my actions.

Hundreds will die, maybe thousands. And I tell myself that it is all for the son we lost."

William didn't realize until then that he had been gripping the journal in his hands, knuckles ghostly white as they clutched the book's edges.

There was nothing else on the pages: no clues, no information. The journal ended there.

--

Slow was her recovery, slower still her return to her research. Though the military had cleared out an entire laboratory for her work, she moved listlessly, without energy or effort. The lab was hidden far beneath the ground for protection; in the case one of her experiments went wrong (they were one of the few parties to know the truth behind Gilvirtown, after all), and to also keep the work far from prying eyes.

The boy was eager to help his mother once she was up and about. He followed her obediently and silently, everywhere she went. Though she had missed her son for the past few years, however, Dante was none too eager to renew that relationship. But he did have his uses.

Soon came the day that he was brave enough to ask again about his father. The words of his journal had stung him, looming over his every thought for the months since reading them. Haunting images clung to his fears, the knowledge that his father had been a reluctant killer. But had he been successful? There were no dates on the worn pages, no clue as to when his father had attempted the largest human transmutation in recorded history.

"Your father was…a brilliant man," she answered. "But for all his knowledge, he forgot what mattered most of all: us, William. His quest for knowledge became a quest for power, and that is what took him from us."

"How-how did he die?"

"As you probably know, he was a master alchemist. His last transmutation was to be the largest ever attempted. Perhaps it was too large, at that, for the backlash of energy destroyed an entire township. And…himself."

"But his last plan…was he successful? Did he create what he set out to?"

She shook her head. "They only died, William," she replied bluntly. "All of them."

--

There was so much more the boy yearned to ask, to know. Somehow his mother's concise replies seemed to leave more unanswered, but he supposed that was the price for any type of answer, as the military records had been practically useless.

Being with her filled that void. Just knowing that someone was out there, and who cared for him…that was enough for a young boy still nursing his broken heart. Though one dream had died, his prayers for a family had been answered in the form of Dante.

--

She should have been happier, she thought to herself. Though she hardly recognized the boy as her son, his sweet face brought back memories of a better time. A time when she knew what was in her heart, a time when there was no doubt as to whether or not she even had one.

He looked like Denton. A few years younger than she remembered, perhaps, but the resemblance was uncanny to any with eyes to see. He smiled a little less, and his hair was much shorter, but there was no question he was the son of Denton. And Elise. A name she had thought of often over the years, a name that had haunted her dreams.

Save the resemblance to the young man she had robbed of life, there was little else she recognized in William. He was obedient, but lacked focus. He was talented, but easily distracted, unable to finish simple tasks. For all the things she had been in her lifetime, Dante had never been a patient teacher. The boy eagerly assisted her in the lab, but for all his enthusiasm, he rarely, if ever, accelerated the research.

The boy was useless. In fact, he had only one thing of use to her…but she cast that thought aside; that could wait.

--

Another dream broken, crushed under the weight of youthful expectations. He should have seen it coming, seeing how distant she was, how focused she was on the research. Little by little he felt the wall between them grow, until the day he was all but banished from her laboratory. She had said nothing (as usual), but he knew his time as her helpful little assistant was over.

The hike up the mountain trail had been difficult, harder for the lack of companionship. But it paled in comparison to the denial of a place by his mother's side. For shouldn't a mother love her son above all else? Maybe not her, he thought bitterly, for hadn't she left her baby in the hands of strangers, an anathema to any mother?

She had explained to him that her travels were spent atoning for the deaths his father had caused, aiding the people of the east with her alchemy and healing. It was no surprise, seeing the toll the last ten years had taken on her. She must have been helping a great deal of people, thought the boy. Any remaining bitterness faded with the thought.

He would have to prove his worth to her. That was the only thing that propelled him on this silly mission, what most would call a fool's quest. Rumors had swirled around the city, but one in particular had caught the boy's attention. Tales of a reclusive alchemist had existed for as long as he could remember, and after comparing the legends, believed he could pinpoint the exact location.

Getting there was another matter, however, for the boy was hardly accustomed to traveling through difficult mountain passes, much less by himself. For some reason, he thought of his father, his journal that told the tale of a man, alone and against the world. They were so alike, he thought, until he remembered the massacre. His father had murdered in his pursuit of power, after abandoning the ones he loved most. Perhaps he had to leave them behind, knowing and fearful of what he had become. But the boy knew better; he would not repeat the mistakes of his father.

--

William found the man at the mouth of a small cave, high enough that the air was thinner. The man stared at him with impossibly dark eyes, displaying neither surprise nor anger. His features were inherently foreign to the boy, hair black as midnight, straight down his back in a thick ponytail. His eyes were narrow, but the pupils behind them were massive. At first glance, the boy was inclined to think the man some sort of snake charmer by the intensity and depth of his gaze.

Clearing his throat after an awkward silence, the boy opened his mouth to speak.

"I do not take students," the hermit said gruffly. "Seek your knowledge and training elsewhere."

"But I—"

"'I am different', right? 'I will do anything you say', correct? Your talent is wasted if you honestly believe that."

"Why do you say that?"

"No one is different," replied the old man. "We are all one and the same crucial element, no matter how different we may look on the outside. And to cast away one's conscience is to abandon one's position within the human hierarchy. We all have our place in the world; do not seek to take the place of another."

The boy thought over the man's words carefully, searching for a chance to convince him. Though the man said he would teach none, there was a permeable loneliness surrounding the hermit. And the way he looked at the boy, it was clear he desired company.

"You have already taught me a lesson," William finally said. "I thought you did not teach?"

"That lesson was free," said the old man carefully. "You have nothing to pay for the cost of the next…"

"I could do cleaning, cooking…sewing even!"

"I have no need for such things," shot back the hermit, pulling from a long, curved pipe. "That is the stuff of your world, not mine," he added, exhaling the smoke smoothly.

"But I have come so far. And…and my father…"

The man's brow arched. "Is he ill?"

"No," replied the boy, shaking his head slowly. "He died for his art."

"Then let that be a warning to you, boy. Stay away and show some better sense than your father."

"My father…" began the boy. "Wait! Of course, that's it," he said, reaching into his bag.

"What is it?"

"My payment…my father's journal!"

"Why would I care for your father's journal?"

"Because he was one of the first alchemists in the world," replied William, his chest swelling with pride. "You would have nothing without his sacrifices."

"Boy, alchemy has been around for over a hundred years," said the hermit, scratching his chin with the end of his pipe. "Your father could not have been around unless—" He stopped talking, seeming to think something when he saw the journal.

"What is it?"

"Tell me, boy…who is your mother," he asked, flipping through the worn pages.

"My mother is Dante of the northern mountains," answered the boy proudly. "She is leading the military facility in alchemy research as well."

"Dante," began the old man. "Now there is a name I have not heard in a long while…"

"You know my mother?"

"I…knew of her," said the man cryptically. "But I knew her as Dante of the Stone Forest, when I lived far to the east, many years ago."

"Then you will take me on as a student?"

The old man regarded the boy warily before making up his mind suddenly.

"Of course," he smiled, and William started when he saw the man had no teeth. "_Any_thing for a son of Dante."

--

The lack of teeth was the least of the man's physical abnormalities. His limp was noticeable, even when simply standing. The bones of his right hand were brittle and misshapen. An entire side of his body was severely burned, the blistered scars like lumps of clay under his crackling, spotty skin. It took every bit of concentration and discipline in his body not to ask, nor to stare.

The boy grew accustomed to the deformities, just as he got used to the harsh training regiment of his new master. He went by no name, and told no more stories of his past, focusing in on pushing the boy to his limits.

"Alchemy is more than just elements, boy," he spat. "Our art taps into the energy that exists everywhere, connecting all things living and not! Concentrate on the purification circle!"

"I am trying," said the boy, sweating from intense concentration. He felt the leather strap again against his bare back, the sting of his master's whip biting into his young flesh.

"Do not speak back to me! Do as you are told; nothing else!"

The boy nodded, trying his best to ignore the dribble of blood he felt running down his back. It would probably scar, like the others.

"Balance of your focus is what separates us from the animals out there! They look only at the balance of elements. Thus, they are limited in their views…! They hold equivalence as sacred, when there is so much more than that to account for!"

"Like what, master," asked the boy, realizing he had spoken out of turn, waiting for the cruel snap of his master's whip. But it never came.

"There is no word for it in your language," replied his teacher. "In mine, we call it 'lungmei', an energy source so great that it must lay hidden in all things of this world."

"'Lungmei'…? That sounds familiar…"

"You have heard of it before," asked his teacher skeptically.

"My mother mentioned it, in her work…I think."

"Interesting," said his teacher. "Do you remember anything else she might have mentioned?"

The boy shook his head, and his training resumed.

--

Little by little did his training progress. His master's cruelty was only sated by tidbits of his mother's work; information William stole from her study when she was busy in the lab below. It was only under that condition that the training continued, however, and so the boy did what he thought was necessary.

It also helped that his mother treated him with nothing but scorn now, disappointed at his aptitude for alchemy and his general uselessness to her cause. Rationalizing the theft of her work went a bit smoother after another day of her neglect.

And where his mother's neglect ended, his master's abuse began. Little by little it mounted, until the night he felt his master's clammy hand on his bare skin, and he no longer flinched at his sadistic touch. Revolted as most would be by the contact, the student within him learned to swallow it and accept the degradation a pitiless man would heap upon his defenseless student.

--

Years passed, progress marked by taller buildings, stronger foundations. Technology came and went, sometimes simplifying the lives of the people, other times complicating what was better left alone.

The military base grew despite the new government's call for peace. Revolutionaries had won the region with underhanded political maneuvering, bringing their pacifist ways to a people disgusted and exhausted of the constant fighting. And so the military was forced to relocate funding and resources, recalling satellite bases and consolidating them into one central base.

Despite the increase of soldiers in the facility, however, even fewer knew of the laboratory located far beneath them. Or of the dark experiments taking place there.

"This is ridiculous," she yelled, her voice rattling off the thickly insulated walls. "I cannot be expected to work under these conditions, General!"

"You can and you will, Dante," said the General firmly. "You know as well as I that funding has dropped drastically with this new…government in power."

"Don't feed me the same excuse," she said bitterly. "I know there are other factors here; we do not need money to locate the usual test subjects!"

"You know—"

"I know the field-injured amputees I was getting before are all now going into that foolish automail program of yours," she fumed. "Tell me otherwise, General."

"You know I have a personal stake in that program, Dante," he said, gingerly rubbing the remaining stump of his left arm. "It could be a valuable asset to us, repairing our brave but damaged soldiers."

"And how can you expect progress when I have no test subjects?"

"We will find a way, Dante," he said calmly. "I have been thinking of your situation here, and I believe there is still a way to keep you entrenched in test subjects…"

"It better not be more of those stray animals you were feeding me before."

He shook his head. "No…better."

"What is it," she asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Giving you half-men, broken and in pieces…that was misguided," he began slowly. "We thought that was all we had to sacrifice, but we were wrong. Not for the first time either…I know, I know. There is another group of people we have ready access too, all looking for a way out of their current predicament…"

"Criminals," she finished, finally understanding. "You're going to give me criminals?"

"Of a sort," he replied. "They are a myriad of deserters, thieves, murderers…condemned men, all who abused their positions in the military."

"Military criminals," she said warily. "They are more dangerous than regular criminals."

"You have a problem with that?"

"There are only three people here to assist me," she replied. "Most of which are women. We will need armed guards—"

The General put up his hand. "This is a strictly need-to-know project, Dante, as I am sure you are well aware. There will be no additional guards."

"But how can you guarantee my safety?"

He shrugged, the pinned cuff of his armless sleeve flapping with the motion. "There are no guarantees in life, Dante. You are a resourceful woman, I am sure you will think of something," he said as he walked away. "Just remember to keep an arm's length away from the bars," he called over his shoulder with a laugh.

"Oh, but there is _one_ guarantee in life, _General_," Dante whispered darkly to his retreating form. "You shall come to rue the day you crossed me."

--

While Dante schemed on her promise, the General delivered on his. Dozens of unwashed men were herded into the cages she had transmuted especially for them, thick iron bars with spaces so narrow that air could barely get in.

"This is inhumane," screamed one of the men, his face a mask of scars and war. "We don't deserve to be put here!"

"You do not even know what 'here' is," said one of Dante's assistants, a frumpy middle-aged woman with the faintest hint of a moustache shading her stiff upper lip. "Calm yourself or be sedated."

"Go to hell, cow," he bellowed, while his cellmates agreed.

"The next man to speak is to be our first volunteer," said Dante coolly, appearing in the doorway. The men immediately quieted. "I thought as much," she said, turning away. To her surprise, one of the men actually did speak.

"'Her beauty is timeless and deep within, for her heart beats beyond the ravages of time'," said the familiar voice, whimsical and carefree.

"I did not take you for a poet, Greeley," said Dante, stepping towards the cage. "Or a criminal…at least, not one who got caught."

"It's been a long time, Dante," he said, his once-handsome face weary with fatigue.

"Long enough for you to become rotten to the core, I see."

"So what you're saying is…I wasn't so bad before," he asked slyly.

"I suppose you were tolerable," she replied. "Better than the rest of your men…then again, I don't see any of them locked up in here with you."

"They weren't as lucky as me," he shrugged.

"Obviously," she said. "What did you do to end up here?"

He grinned. "It's like you said; I always want more. I guess this place will be the death of me. Or will it be you," he asked, his eyes penetrating, but without accusation.

"And how could _I_ ever be the death of _you_, Gabriel," she asked innocently.

"It's always the pretty ones," he replied smartly. "I was kind of worried, after seeing your assistants, that I would have to die surrounded by smelly men and unsightly women."

"No different than any battlefield, really."

"I was never anxious to die on one of those either."

"You always were picky, Greeley."

"No accounting for taste, eh, Dante?"

"Not in your case."

"Admit it, you missed me."

"Why, where have you been? Besides the cages, that is."

"I have been further east than most western men," replied Greeley. "Not so far as some of our women though, right Dante?"

"And what have you heard," she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Only what the caged bird tells me," he replied. "Mysteries of lost cities, black magic, fallen civilizations…"

"You always did lack subtlety, Greeley," noted Dante.

"But not knowledge, Dante," he said smugly. "Never knowledge."

"Do you even know now where you stand then," she asked, seeking to challenge his claim.

"Something tells me you would much rather tell me."

"You and these men stand now, far underground, on the brink of the abyss," she began. "The edge of the world to some, unknown to all but a handful of the most important minds in the military…"

"You mean…" he said, his eyes widening.

She nodded, bowing graciously. "Allow me to be the first to formally welcome you to Laboratory Zero," she said.

--

There is an old saying, that those unfamiliar with the past are doomed to repeat it. An ominous warning, perhaps, one given by the aged and wise and ignored by the young and brash. But in the case of William, his was a fate tragic from the beginning.

It was mercury again, just as it had nearly killed his overly ambitious father. The purification circle had been nearly perfect, as William had seen to every possible outcome, but he played with elements dangerous beyond his experience, and paid now for it.

The illness fell upon him during the winter of his seventeenth year. His work in alchemy had stalled, despite feeding his cruel master all he could glean from his mother's research. The master seemed to no longer care for the tidbits, instead relishing the countless abuses he could heap on his pupil. It was no surprise then, that the master also knew his student was slowly dying from that silvery material running through his veins, and did nothing to stop it.

Eventually, the young man fell so ill that even his work-obsessed mother took notice. Unlike most people, she learned from her mistakes, as well as others, and immediately recognized what had befallen her only son. After all, mercury poisoning had also nearly killed the one man she had ever loved.

It was two weeks later that the delirious young man told her everything, the truth pouring out in hushed whispers. She left him to the military doctors, knowing there was nothing they could do, before she quietly set off for the mountain trail. She took with her one object of note; a steel box with holes drilled into the side, darkness peering out from within.

--

She found him within the cave's mouth, sitting cross-legged as he puffed away at a curved wooden pipe longer than his arm. He had grown a thin moustache since she last saw him, thin trails of wispy dark hair hanging from his face. Despite herself, she smiled at him. She instinctively slipped into his eastern dialect with her first words to him.

"Ah, the ever reclusive alchemist," she said with a mocking bow. "I should have known."

"You should have known better than to come here alone, Dante of the Stone Forest," he returned, smoke billowing from his scarred mouth. His one good eye took her in, and there was an almost palpable hate oozing from those flinty black orbs.

"I come only to speak, old friend," she said, holding empty hands up.

"You fool no one with your pledge of peace, wily one," he replied. "Know that I have been waiting for you, preparing for this day," he added, beckoning towards the walls with his pipe. Dante could see purification circles carved into the rocks and dirt, a defensive security system of sorts, all centering on where the old man now sat.

"Paranoid as ever, eh, Hwak Gui," she said, sitting on a flat stone by the entrance. "How is Li Hing?"

"Dead, thanks to you," he replied spitefully. "Just as I nearly was."

"Yet here we are, both alive and well," she said, eyeing his deformities. "Well, at least in my case…"

"Not for long, Dante."

"You boast a lot for a half man," she said coolly, staring at his various deformities.

"A half man is still more than a full woman," he returned. "You tread into the wounded lion's den, Dante…a most dangerous place."

"Your Rentan Jutsu is formidable to most," admitted Dante as she leaned back comfortably, seemingly unperturbed by his overt threats. "Your master showed me all he knew in but a handful of years, and I…I only showed the two of you a taste of our Renkin Jutsu."

He laughed. "Your alchemy is but an infant compared to ours, created by ancestors over a century ago…"

"You are right," agreed Dante, surprising him. "In my culture, we toast such great accomplishments…like this," she added, giving mock applause.

"Damn you Dante," he cursed, when he noticed the space between her hands begin to glow. Too late he realized what it was, leaping to close his security circle. Hers was faster, however, the energy racing from her arms and into the cave walls, bending and reshaping his intricate spider's web of circles and symbols. In a flash, his months of work were gone. She towered over him, her eyes afire with rage.

"You would sully an innocent child for revenge upon _me_," she seethed. "Do you not know me, who I am? To think harming my son would make me walk into your carefully laid trap like a fool? I shall finish the job you began all those years ago, Hwak Gui, and I shall send you into the abyss!"

"No Philosopher's Stone to collect here either, eh Dante," he laughed scornfully. "All you have to you is your revenge…a dying son, tarnished and driven to insanity by your bitterest enemy! Even your stone of a heart must ache from that truth!"

"As I suspected, you do not know me at all," she said calmly, her voice like a disappointed love. "Long ago, you nearly created a working Stone for me, almost costing you your life, instead robbing you of your humanity. For that, I would have given you what I give you now…"

Rolling the sleeves of her tunic up, she revealed lines of carefully drawn symbols dotting her skin, and he finally understood how she had performed a transmutation without first drawing a proper circle; she had done so before confronting him, concealing it from his suspicious eyes.

Smiling at his surprise, she set a small steel cage before him, pressing her hands to its top. As red energy crackled under her fingertips, the end of the cage facing him melted away, opening to reveal a type of creature he had never seen before. Long-limbed and wiry, it scuttled reluctantly from the box, gleaming silver eyes glaring at him.

"As you probably discovered from William, I have been working with the military to find…practical applications for alchemy," she said. "It is difficult work, hardly rewarding…until the day I created this lovely beast. You would be surprised, how simple it is to fiddle with the life matter of animal and man, how simple it is to create a creature with nothing but darkness behind its eyes, nothing but hunger at its being."

"Wha-what is that thing," he cried, recoiling in fear. The creature stood upright, its nostrils flaring out when it sensed him nearby.

"I call them Chimeras," she replied. "This particular one hasn't eaten in a long time, old friend. Be a proper host and see to its needs," she whispered gustily, turning to leave the gloomy cave.

"Wait, Dante," he yelled. "Stop it, please! I know how to forge a Stone! I know how!"

She paused at the cave's entrance just as the Chimera began to rip into the flesh of his legs with bared fangs. "You old fool; so do I," she said coldly, and he finally realized that she had used him from the very beginning, allowing his body to wither and his master to die. "You speak of your ancestors and their alchemy," she scoffed. "It was _I_ who created alchemy as you know it. Me and that boy's father."

One last transmutation and the cave's mouth closed tightly behind her. Through the thickness of the rocks, she could barely hear his dying screams, and she was disappointed by this fact.

--

No one in the military was the wiser regarding the missing Chimera. Her research assistant had asked once, but the glare Dante shot her squashed the topic permanently. Though her assistants were accustomed to her mood shifts by now, none were prepared for the abrupt shift in her research, which suddenly began to concentrate on medicine.

There was no surprise at this turn of events. All of her assistants knew her son was deathly ill, and only Dante was brilliant enough to find a cure for a poison that had overtaken his entire body. Blood work was something that few could understand, and a field that none before her had undertaken.

But something drove her beyond all others, just as it had driven her to the top of alchemy. Each test proved more painful for William, however, and Dante truly knew anguish in those moments. Perhaps some bit of Elise's unconditional love for the child remained in her heart; perhaps she saw some bit of the man she loved still in his suffering face. Regardless of why she cared, she did, and the realization stunned her.

Nothing, however, would stun her more than the day he returned. He stood framed in the doorway, light streaming around him like an angel reborn.

"I come for my son," said Hohenheim, his voice so forceful that she almost didn't recognize him.

"How did you get in here," demanded Dante. "How did you know of this place?"

"Do not flatter yourself with your secrets, Dante," he replied bluntly. "I have been around as long as you, and you know as well as I that no walls can keep us from where we wish to be."

Every part of her wanted to grab him, to hold him close to her, but she resisted, as she always had.

"William is ill, Hohenheim," she said, pain in her words. "It's that damned mercury again."

He nodded solemnly. "I feared the worst."

"How did you even know he was sick?"

"The military was willing to offer me anything I wanted in exchange for my help," he said. "This information was but a token of trust."

"Then you are here to work on the project," she asked, a faint hope finding its way into her voice.

"I am here to work on your current project," he said, noting her medical equipment. "Of saving William…that is all."

Her hope shattered, indignant anger took its place.

"This would never have happened if you had not left," she said bitterly. "Had you not stolen the Stone from me, I could have healed him weeks ago!"

He stared blankly at her, no emotion in his face or eyes. "The Stone is tainted, Dante. It would have done him no good," he said quietly, standing over his sleeping son.

"Did you lose it," she asked. "Or did you waste it during your frivolous valley escapade?"

"...You know about that?"

"Of course, 'Hohenheim of Light'," she replied. "There is precious little I do not know about."

"I see you are as self-assured as ever," he noted, checking his son's vitals.

"Don't wake him," she commanded curtly, seeing her son stir at the contact. "I do not want to have to explain your presence, nor your absence."

"What…what does he know of me," he asked, his fingers hovering over the sleeping boy.

"He knows enough," she answered. "I gave him your journal."

"My…why did you do that," he asked angrily.

She shrugged. "He wanted to know his father; what better way to know the truth than from his own hand?"

"That journal was written by another man," said Hohenheim distantly. "William did not need to know that part of my history."

"We cannot protect the ones we love from the choices we make," she said coolly.

"And Xing," he said suddenly, his eyes blazing with accusation. "Did you tell him that part of your history?"

"You…know?"

"There is precious little I do not know about," he said, echoing her words back at her. "Perhaps you should enlighten him as to whom his mother really is as well."

"He knows who his mother is," she said quietly, and he sensed only sadness behind those words.

"We have all let him down," said Hohenheim diplomatically. "It now falls upon us to set things right."

"It's not too late?"

"It is never too late," he declared. And against her better judgment, she found some assurance in his bold tone, finding in herself that elusive hope once again.

--

It would prove to be fruitless. Their son died on a cloudy Tuesday, days after his eighteenth birthday. His father saw for himself how much he had mattered to the people around him, his funeral procession larger than the hall it was held in. Lines wrapped around the facility, mourners from all over waiting to bid farewell to a young man whose life was cut so tragically short, but who had somehow touched them all.

William's last words still lingered in his father's mind.

"Why couldn't I have been born someone else," he had asked with his final breath. And though his father knew the mysteries of life after death, and of turning lead to gold, there was no answer he could give his son.

* * *

_Notes: the whole Rentan Jutsu/Renkin Jutsu terms are from the manga, the different regions of alchemy separated by western and eastern. Beyond that, I couldn't tell you much else about the manga. So if it seems like gibberish to you anime viewers, that's where it's from. _

_The "reclusive alchemist" was a character I had been wrestling with since the beginning, as I wanted him to be William's tormentor and teacher. The name "Hwak Gui" is sort of a loose spelling from a Chinese dialect meaning "Black Devil". Traditionally, more of a derogatory term against black people, I liked the literal translation so much that I decided to keep it despite that. Originally, I had William kill the man in a fit of dementia, but I thought this would be a good chance to display those lovely chimeras we all know and love. Plus we rarely get to see Dante fight, so this was a double plus. _

_Another detail I didn't get to flesh out was Hwak and his master Li Hing (named after a candy brand); originally, Li Hing was going to be a close friend of Dante's that she met when Denton/Hohenheim left her, the one she quoted in her farewell letter to Hohenheim. She had used her friend to attempt the creation of a stone, killing Li Hing and wiping out Xing many years ago, before trying to return there again after agreeing to work with the military. The timeframe is a bit off, but it was such a small detail I decided to leave it in there._


	16. Homunculus

**Homunculus **

A grave moon hung over the cemetery as he worked; luckily for him, it hid behind a thick sheath of slow inky clouds. Not that anyone was awake to notice, for he had waited long beyond the witching hour, long after all in the facility had taken to their beds. Even the guard posts stood bare, sentries relocated to the city walls after the recent raids from the east.

The soil was still fresh under his shovel; each thrust pierced the loose dirt with a muffled crunch before he tossed it aside onto his neat, mounting pile. He could have unearthed the casket with alchemy, and easily at that, but something within him demanded he labor at this task. For once, at the very least, he could strain himself for his lost son.

Not even Dante knew he was out here on this night. He had left her, over a month ago, the day after William's funeral, to return to the mountains. Neither of them had shed tears at the grim procession, or the following ceremony. They were beyond their grief, they had told themselves, all without uttering a single word.

But before the funeral, there were words, bitter words of indignation and spite. Words that still stung his heart.

"It is all your fault," she accused, her voice barely above a whisper. "You who did not care until it was too late."

"I came as soon as I heard," he replied indignantly. "It was you who hid from me."

"And what good were you," she taunted. "Working in your precious 'circle of life', what did you accomplish? He only suffered more from your efforts!"

He shut his eyes tightly against her barrage, recalling his son's anguish in those last days.

"I did what I could," he finally said. "It is all anyone can expect of another."

"Expect of another…? And what of you, his father?! Was it unreasonable to expect more from you, Hohenheim?! Or were you too busy risking your lives for the children of strangers?"

"I did what I could," he repeated hollowly, as if uncertain of it. "That is all I know."

"All I know is that you failed your son," she seethed. "As a father and as an alchemist."

After all these years, she still knew how to push his buttons, how to get a rise from him. He thought of this as he had unearthed another of his tragic mistakes from the remote mountain of rubble and roots. It had glowed red, faintly, but still a spark within its core. Only then did he begin the long trek back to his son's grave to dig more.

--

She burned. Something within her heart scorched with anger and resentment and bitterness. Hohenheim had left again, and this was no surprise, least of all to her. But her son…her son…she shook the thought from her head. Melancholy would achieve nothing. Only her work mattered now.

Her project's first official test run, performed under the watchful eye of the military, had been a failure. The chimera had fallen to the auto-mail endowed soldier, his crude steel limbs crushing the man-wolf's throat with contemptuous ease. The General had flashed her a look of disapproval after the scheduled battle, and she knew her time was fleeting.

Not that serving as dog to the military was her ultimate goal, but their resources were what she needed to complete her personal research now. While her assistants had bemoaned the defeat of their carefully constructed chimera, she knew she had committed little effort into its production and so she took little from its failure.

Her new assistant seemed to exert even less effort than she in the project, though he was always happy to oblige when it came to pointing out her oversights.

"You're overcompensating for the carbons again," he noted.

She grumbled. "Your observations are duly noted, but unnecessary, Greeley," said Dante. "I have forgotten more about alchemy since this morning than you have learned in your entire life."

"Just looking out for your well-being," he said, taken aback by her tone. He quickly changed pace, rechecking the rest of the elemental apparatus. If he was still hurt by her curtness, he did not show it.

"I…am…sorry," she said, surprising the both of them. "You have been the most useful of my assistants; I did not mean to lash out at you."

It was then that he saw the tiniest of cracks in her armor, the dark sliver of pain that seeped from behind her ironclad façade. He had watched her intently over the years, studying her every movement, enough to learn basic alchemy and nearly catch a glimpse of her heart. But it was only in that moment of rare apology that he saw her no differently than every other woman he had ever known. She was mortal after all.

"No need to apologize," he said stiffly, trying to look away. "After all I owe you my life."

"Speaking of which," she said, composing herself. "I always meant to ask…how _did_ you manage to get locked up in here with that bunch of savages anyways?"

"I…stole," he confessed. "As you once said, my downfall was to be my desire for more."

"What could you possibly need so badly," she asked, remembering the comfort of his lifestyle.

"It was…medicine," he replied. "Not available anywhere else, it was a test sample created by the military's doctors. It was just sitting there in a lab, doing no one any good, and so I put it where I thought best."

"Your own pocket?"

"In a way," he shrugged. "It was meant to help someone very close to me."

"Who?"

"My…wife."

"Your _wife_?!"

He nodded. "She fell ill a fortnight before the Ishbalan front reached our border," he began. "The doctors of our town knew nothing of her sickness, only that she was destined to die from it. I was helping transfer some of our amputees back to Amestris, and report back to the General, when I saw it in the labs. I didn't even think before I took it; I only knew that she needed it and that I could get it for her."

"What happened to her," asked Dante quietly.

"Her name was Gwen," he said. "I never saw her again, as they caught up to me two days later. The military had been plagued by deserters and thieves since the war began, so the Fuhrer wanted to make an example of me…I was to be executed. Not even by the traditional firing squad, as they needed every shell to fight their precious war," he chuckled bitterly. "I was to be hanged, but General Armstrong intervened on my behalf. He had originally offered me a spot in the auto-mail project, but I could never part with one of my precious limbs. And so I ended up here with the other criminals."

"Gwen," echoed Dante hollowly. "I did not take you for the marrying type, Gabriel."

"Nor did I," he smiled. "But it was never a life I was able to live, for the military called upon me time and time again, even before we wed. Thatcher was able to find out for me where she was buried," he added. "Maybe someday I'll even get to see it."

"This work…is that why you embrace our work so?"

He shook his head grimly. "It is best to leave the past behind us, Dante. I have no wish to bring Gwen back into this world."

"Then why are you here?"

"Where else would I be," he said, his dark eyes shining at her.

--

Later, in the lab, he looked over the intricate system of tubes and filters she had erected over the tables.

"What is that red substance," he asked, tapping a test tube.

"Something I discovered in my travels to the east," replied Dante. "But I was surprised to find it back here as well…"

"Hmm…is it liquid, or plasma? It looks rather viscous," noted Greeley.

"It can be found in any state of matter," she answered. "For our purposes, I am keeping it as liquid, but thickening it to reduce the acidity. Otherwise, it would burn through our equipment, no matter how expensive it may be. It is also quite toxic to the senses."

"But what is it," he repeated.

"I found a weak flow of it near a ruined camp," she said. "Buried under a mass grave site, this substance almost glowed with light."

"Is it blood?"

She laughed. "Blood is not nearly so translucent; it is dark and thick. I thought a soldier like you would have known that, Gabriel," she said, resetting a beaker. "The red water we are using now is filled with minerals and elements not yet charted. I am confident it holds the key to our quest."

She sounded so certain of herself, he could hardly deny her claims. For he had seen the red waters himself, strong enough to melt through rock and sicken a fully-grown man with only a breath of its fumes.

It had been during the third month after his transfer to the front lines; he had heard tales of the brutality of war, of men turned into monsters. But nothing could prepare him for what he discovered on the outskirts of that burnt-out Ishbalan village: bodies upon bodies of women and children heaped into a smoldering hole, empty skulls gaping up at him in silent accusation. It was the first of many mass graves he discovered on the front, each one tearing at his heart a little bit less. Until they were just another part of the job.

Under these burial sites was where he first saw the red water, particularly beneath the older ones. He had seen men foolish enough to try and set fire to it, seeing it explode in surprised faces. He had seen men thirsty enough to try and drink it, seeing them die from the inside in complete agony. What he had never seen, however, was anyone ambitious enough to attempt and harness its power. Until now.

He had thought often of the red water since those days, the cycle it represented. People were murdered, innocent people, and left to rot in a festering pit of filth. Their decaying corpses birthed the red water, which in turn poisoned the earth around them, even the people. It was a circle of suffering, of death.

--

Thunder rolled beyond the thin horizon. Friction seemed to hum in the air, static electricity racing across the land as quickly as the ashen clouds that suddenly loomed overhead. The skies threatened to open, ready to drown the land, but he paid it no attention.

He worked alone, as he had for decades, without complaint. Surrounded by only silence and candlelight, he meticulously rationed out the elements he would need for this, his greatest transmutation ever. Deep down he heard the wails of his morality, the anger of his righteousness, but he pushed them aside, as all parents must do when the interests at hand are their children's.

He had never been there for William, had never been more than an unanswered question. As much as he had wanted to blame Dante for the separation, he knew he had left by his own choice, giving his defenseless son none.

But that would change on this night, he swore to himself. He would begin to do right by William, at the very least giving him the chances he had once taken away. Guilt had forged his resolve into the strongest of steels.

--

Sweat poured down his brow. The humidity reminded him of the night he and Elise had conceived their son, but this was little comfort as he labored. That night seemed so long ago, from another lifetime he had nearly forgotten.

Time. He had been granted so much of it in his lifetime that he foolishly thought the same of the rest of the world. He had been spoiled by the lives granted him by the Stone, the same thing he had once criticized Dante for. He had forgotten how to live. And his son had paid for it, cursed with only a fraction of a lifespan.

There was never enough time, he thought to himself. Even now, slaving away at his task, he felt it slipping through his fingers like the ashes of his life's work. No matter how desperately he grasped at it, it would always be the same; no amount of power would change that fact.

He thought of happy families, whole families with security and joy in their hearts. Frolicking children and proud parents in a perfect picture frame of complete bliss. He thought of these families, having what he never had, as he worked.

At last, the preparations were completed. Every element down to the last bit was accounted for, balanced, and properly arrayed. All it would take now was the sacrifice. Drawing out the glowing Stone he had once liberated from Dante so long ago, he set it by his son's unearthed remains as the echoes of thunder rumbled close by.

Rain began to pour forth from the sky, thick droplets rattling against the walls and roof of his hut. Lights flickered in the darkness, illuminating the desolate countryside in intermittent flashes. The dam over the river's head buckled against the pressure of the churning waters, spurring the fearful country folk to evacuate long ago. He was truly alone when he finally closed the transmutation circle, nobody around for miles.

Energies completely unfamiliar to him began to leap from the table, whipping about him in a frenzy of crackling pops and blinding light. The air about him seemed to remain deathly still, and he found it difficult to breath, as if the air had been sucked out from the room. And then he saw it: the Gate. Towering in the distance of an infinitely blank horizon, he sensed the doors shuddering before swinging open. Darkish, misshapen tendrils of smoky matter spilled out, seeking and starving for sacrifice.

With nothing else to offer, he held up the Stone. It suddenly burned in his hands, the once-faint light growing stronger as the skin of his palms singed. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he suffered silently, sensing something familiar beyond those massive doors, something warm and loving, some part of a past he had once thought lost.

A cold wind rushed past him, wrapping its frigid wisps around his arms, snaking up towards the Stone. He felt it, even through the numbness spreading to his wrists, beginning to rock in his hands, as if a massive pressure were building up from the inside.

And when it shattered in his grip, he knew his task was completed. He rose on wobbly knees, his limbs heavy as if encrusted with lead. Pushing his sweat soaked hair aside, he saw it, the fruits of his labor, sitting in the steaming pile that had been his worktable.

It was more bones than flesh, the ashen skin like dried leather pulled back over its angular bone structure. Eyes void of emotion stared at him, and his pounding heart leapt into his throat when they settled hungrily upon him. The crooked slope of a mouth fell open to reveal jagged teeth, spittle foaming at its corners as it babbled incoherently. He realized then that it was trying to scream with vocal cords not properly formed.

"My god," he gasped, seeing the abomination begin to limp towards him. Impossibly large hands dragged behind its thinly grotesque body, fingers as thick as a man's wrist twitching. The proportions of the being were almost comical, exaggerated hands and uneven feet.

Lightning crashed beyond the windows, filling the dim room with stark white light. Any part of him that thought of his son vanished when he saw the creature fully in the light. It growled against the radiance, a guttural rumbling emanating from the pit of its bony belly.

Instinctively, he kicked at the approaching creature, it resembling nothing but a monster. His boot sunk into the creature's malleable flesh, and he realized it had already begun to grow in the few breaths of its lifetime. He knew then what he had to do.

His desperate hands found a candle stand, and he hefted its heavy base before swinging it at the creature. It fell back in a snarl, suddenly agile and leaping towards the open window. The rains continued to pour, and once more a flash of lightning framed the monster's ghastly features before it disappeared furtively into the night.

"What have I done," he whispered, weeping into his bloody hands. "What have I done?"

--

He lost himself in the flooded countryside, wandering aimlessly in the rainy night. Armed with a dying lantern and a curved blade, he stalked the dark plains in search of his failed transmutation. He owed his son that much, to destroy the twisted monstrosity he had created in William's name.

Little did he realize, however, that instinct ruled the reborn creature. And it was that same instinct that brought the creature back to the place of its recent birth, the one place it knew as home.

--

Dante found the one-room hut in complete disarray, beyond cluttered for even one such as Hohenheim. She could sense a struggle had taken place, and glancing over the array drawn into the base of the floor, she knew why.

She had been watching him, of course, over the weeks, since his return from the northern mountain range. She had seen him at William's gravesite, seen him lock himself away in this place for weeks on end. Long suspecting his intentions, she knew the risks involved. And so she had sat by, waiting.

She wondered now if she had waited too long. By the look of things, it seemed they hadn't gone according to plan…A glitter by the floor caught her eye. Kneeling by it, she found a shard of the Stone imbedded in the ground.

"So…he had kept the Stone after all, for the sacrifice," she mumbled to herself.

At her voice, something moved from behind a fallen bookcase. Startled by the movement, she leapt back and saw what had come of the transmutation. It crawled forward tentatively, its eyes never leaving her, a gaping jaw scratching the floor as it moved. It was a tragedy of shapes, blobs of flesh mashed together as if by a disturbed sculptor in a blind fervor. But something in its eyes…

To her amazement, she found herself unperturbed by the monstrosity before her. As if sensing her lack of revulsion, the creature lumbered forward, only to surprise her again: it began to lick at the Stone fragment she had noticed earlier, trying to dislodge it from the floor.

"It feeds on Stones," she whispered. Looking around the room, she found another shard, tossing it to the creature. Soon it was lost in the monster's dark maw.

"Ma-ma," croaked the shape as it ventured forward to feed hungrily on the shards in her palm. Her eyes welled with tears as she stroked its swollen head. It was her son after all.

--

"Homunculus," repeated Gabriel, watching it cower behind Dante's robes. "He was able to create one?"

"It would appear so," she replied, completely at ease with the creature at her back. "Fetch those pressurized red stones we forged the other day, won't you?"

"What for?"

"Baby's hungry," she answered, turning to pet the homunculus.

"You can't be serious," he said angrily. "Feeding it those stones? You can't allow that-that thing to live! It must be destroyed!"

"Why not," she asked, her brow arching. "Wasn't this our goal from the beginning?"

"No, it wasn't," he replied, taken aback. "Our goal was to forge a Philosopher's Stone!"

"And then what?"

"Certainly not to recreate life!"

"Then what? To gain power, influence? To crush our enemies?"

He drew his lips tightly. "Not in those words, exactly…"

"And what greater power is there than to recreate life? What greater influence is there to sway death itself, Greeley? _This_ is the power we desired from the beginning!"

"But…it's wrong, Dante," he whispered. "As much as I loved William, the cycle of things isn't supposed to work this way."

"It shall work however I choose," she said firmly. "My son will eat now," she added, brushing her assistant aside and leading the homunculus to a pile of red stones. Its eyes widened, and after seeing her nod the go ahead, began to gorge itself on the stones.

Behind them, Greeley could only shake his head.

--

Slowly, the homunculus began to assume a more human form. After a week, it was nearly passable. There was, however, one small detail that gave away the dark origins of the being: it had no face. True, it had a pair of eyes and a mouth, but beyond that, its face was a flat, featureless oval of pale flesh.

Dante doted on the thing. Greeley wasn't sure if he noted this fact with jealousy, but something in his heart knew it was wrong. He had seen a lot in his life, experienced the tragedies of war and loss, and he knew there should never be a way back. Death was something he respected, as both a seasoned soldier and an amateur alchemist.

"Gabriel," she said suddenly, as if she could hear his thoughts. "I have been thinking…"

"Thinking of what?"

"About your…reservations on this project. Perhaps we should reconsider your place here in Lab Zero."

"Dante," he said, his voice wavering. "Please…no matter my personal beliefs—"

"I have already spoken with the General regarding the matter, Gabriel," she interrupted.

"You…didn't…?"

"Don't sound so surprised," she said. "And do not sound so afraid. This is for the best."

"The best…? Me being executed is for the best?"

"Executed?" She laughed. "You think too lowly of me, Gabriel! The General agreed with me that it was about time that the military tried putting some alchemists into the field for more…direct applications of our craft. And you are the most qualified for such a position, with your wealth of military experience supplemented by your rudimentary understanding of alchemy."

"The military…? They want me back?"

"The Ishbalans are more rabid than ever, old friend," she replied. "The military is willing to reinstate you for the skills I promised them."

"But what can I do? Like you said, I only have a basic understanding of alchemy. You would be far better suited—"

"_Me_ on a battlefield," she asked skeptically. "Hardly, my dear Gabriel…and worry not; I have seen to it that you will have enough of the red stones that no one will be the wiser to your true power, or lack thereof. Except for me, of course."

"Of course," he nodded, still stunned by the news. "But what about our experiments?"

"You hardly need worry yourself with such details anymore, Greeley," she assured him. "I shall continue to oversee the lab work here, while you must earn the trust of the higher ups with your alchemic potential."

"Why must I do that?"

"You'll see soon enough," she answered, and he could tell there was something behind that malevolent grin. "Besides," she added. "Now you can visit your wife's grave."

--

He was packing up the last of his belongings, lingering in his room, when she finally came to say goodbye. The past few weeks had seemingly flown by, both consumed with new aspects of their research.

"How is he," he finally asked, feeling her eyes on his back.

"Still adjusting," she said. "But I appreciate you no longer referring to him as 'it'."

"Has he shown anymore growth since his last…reshaping?"

She smiled. "Not unless he wills it. There seem to be no limits to his shape shifting."

"What about…?"

She nodded. "Yes, he still cannot revert to William's original form, but I think that is a blessing. I had been tempted to show him things that had once belonged to him, but I fear any return of his memory might drive him mad."

"It's quite a bit to handle," said Greeley. "For anyone, much less a boy."

"He is stronger than before," she noted.

"Dante," he said, taking in a deep breath. "As much as it pains me to say it—"

"Then don't," she said curtly. "I have already heard it from you a hundred times."

"…That is not William, no matter how much you wish him to be."

"Then explain the mental block when it comes to looking like William."

"I can hardly explain how he lives and breathes, Dante, or how red water, which kills everything else, sustains him when nothing else does. How then can you expect me to explain what lies in its head?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You've said enough, Greeley. Be careful you do not say more than you already have."

"You play with fire, Dante," he warned. "Not just any fire, but the fires of life and death! Be careful, lest your soul burn with them."

"My soul burns only for power, as does yours, Greeley. As such, you will understand if your advice goes largely ignored…"

"But the danger—"

"Loving is a dangerous dream," she interrupted, her voice rising. "It has never stopped people though, now has it?"

"I suppose not," he conceded, her eyes fixed knowingly on his.

"I'll be visiting with him for the rest of the day," she said, turning away. "It might do some good if you said goodbye before you left. God knows he could use a father figure."

--

Dante found the boy as she usually did, examining himself in the long mirror she had created for him, stretching across an entire side of the spacious room. But she knew it was not vanity that drove him to this habit; it was her instruction that led the boy to practice the faces and shapes he could become by simply thinking of them.

"You do not have to practice every moment of the day," she said as she entered. He quickly leapt from his chair to embrace her, as he always did when she visited.

"Mama," he cried happily. "I was able to take three more forms today!"

"Good boy," she said, affectionately petting the boy's head. He had recently learned to take a permanent form; strangely, one that was much younger and sicklier than his original form. This child-like form was dark and frail, with sunken eyes black as coal. Some part of her envisioned this form as a young Greeley, and wondered if the boy had been thinking the same thing when assuming it.

"Where is Gabriel," asked the boy curiously, looking behind her at the open door. "Isn't he going away today? I thought he would at least say goodbye," he said, and she could hear the disappointment in his boyish voice.

"He is still packing," she replied patiently. "I am certain he will come to visit you before his long trip."

"He hasn't come all week, not even once," the boy said grumpily.

"He is very busy," she said, knowing how weak the excuse sounded.

"As are you," he mumbled. "It has never stopped you from visiting."

"A mother's love is always greater than any other's," she offered. "Never forget that."

"Yes, mama," said the boy.

--

At his mother's encouragement, the boy kept a daily journal of sorts. At first, he had been reticent in documenting his thoughts, but as she opened her own thoughts to him, he began to feel that perhaps he wasn't so strange, no matter his origin.

His entire world was contained within the walls of the laboratory. The facility was massive, built in a cavern large enough to house all of the military's forces, but the Fuhrer had insisted on using it for research, no matter any strategic advantage. Few faces filled the halls, all familiar but none truly friendly. Except for mother.

The boy's mind went well beyond his years (at least the years he physically appeared to be), but with seemingly no memory of his past life. It filled Dante with a newfound pride, seeing her child's formative years fly by in a matter of weeks. It filled her with so much pride, in fact, that she decided to try and teach him a bit of her craft.

To her immense puzzlement, all her attempts met with resounding failure. For all his intelligence and resourcefulness, the boy was unable to perform even the simplest transmutation. Though she was disappointed by this fact, there was a greater part of her curiosity dedicated to the reason behind this fact. She briefly wondered if perhaps the boy had a mental block for alchemy as well as everything to do with his past. But if that were the case, why had he loved her so deeply?

Her thoughts returned to her first son, William, and how distant she had felt when she had held her baby. Part of her wondered if the unborn child had been adversely affected by the taking of Elise's body. Though he had been healthy, she doubted he was ever truly happy. And that thought did not bother her in the slightest; perhaps her own emotional attachments were altered by the transfer as well. For wasn't a mother only as happy as her saddest child?

All of that had somehow changed in the past few years. Dante had suddenly found it in herself to make time for the boy, watching over him as he ate his red water stones and teaching him all that she could. A nagging voice in the back of her mind scolded her, accusing her of only caring now because his existence progressed her work. Oddly, the voice she heard sounded much like Greeley, her one-time assistant who had gone back to the front lines long ago.

There were so many things different about the boy, she wondered if after all her assistant had been right; maybe this wasn't William. But as an absentee mother, she also had to consider that perhaps this was how he had always been, and she had simply never been there to see it.

But now was the time to make up for it. Life lessons from Dante; all her years, her different bodies…there was so much to teach.

"Your father was a coward," she said to him in that first lesson. "He hid his abilities and kept them for himself, never sharing nor helping. That is the greatest tragedy humans have to offer; our capacity to do nothing in the face of evil, to be indifferent to the sufferings of others."

"But mother, you said to use my gift to blend in with people, to not draw attention to myself…"

"That is true," she nodded. "But when the time comes, you must remember that only action can cause a reaction. Using your abilities to escape notice is but one aspect of your gift; you can also use it to take advantage of your enemies' emotional ties."

"Emotional ties?"

"Everyone, no matter who they are, loves someone above all others," she explained. "Or someone they fear, or respect. You must learn to recognize this, and keep them off balance with your gift…when the time is right, you must pounce on that opportunity afforded by your advantage, before they discern the truth of your identity."

"And who would your weakness be, mother?"

"Why you, of course," she replied, taking his face in her hands. But there was another answer behind those shimmering eyes, one the boy would never understand.

--

It was impossible to tell the time of day in the facility. Sunny days or frigid nights, it was all one and the same to the people underground. If one were to ask the hard working lab technicians of it, they would agree that it only made them work more diligently. But as time would pass, time spent underground would wear on them heavily, dulling their senses and minds.

Perhaps that was how the intruder made it so far into the facility before being detected.

--

The power had been spotty all that week, flashing in and out at random intervals. Dante, wearing of restarting her projects, abandoned them altogether, deciding to spend her new free time with the boy as her assistants scrambled to maintain the data. She made no complaints to the higher ups of the military, who had recently toured the facility at the behest of the General.

"Your work here is lagging, Dante," he had said when they were finally alone. "Everyone knows it, and with your failure in the auto-mail test run, the military is looking to cut costs."

"Cut costs," she asked, seemingly undisturbed by his shared insight. "In what regard, exactly?"

"Your assistants," he began. "Your amount of funding for chemicals, test subjects, and power; these are all valuable resources that might be better dedicated to projects that are already bearing fruit."

"Like your auto-mail project," she said coolly.

"We all saw it, Dante," he countered. "And the project has grown in leaps and bounds."

"And Greeley," she said suddenly. "How is he working out for the military these days?"

"He…he is the only reason you have not yet been shut down," admitted the General. "He is an invaluable asset to our frontline. In fact, that is one of the reasons I am here…"

"Besides debunking my research before the committee?"

He nodded grimly. "Today's tour was to confirm the dead end your research has hit. However, it was also to remind us how valuable your efforts have been. As such, the military offices would like you to consider focusing your alchemy project solely on training alchemists for the field."

--

"No," she replied quickly, seemingly before the words were completely out of his mouth.

"Dante, please," he said. "At least consider the value of this offer…"

"I knew that would be your offer the moment your contingent arrived this morning, General," she replied. "An alchemist and a soldier can never be one and the same thing, no matter what you offer me."

"And Greeley," he countered. "What made him the exception to your rule?"

"Greeley learned the craft on his own," she answered. "From observation that goes far beyond what can simply be taught. In that regard, I suspect he was, at his core, an alchemist long before your dogs got their clutches into him; just lacking in the proper nurturing environment."

"You have an answer for everything," said the General gruffly. "But do not think—"

An opening door interrupted the General, followed by the sudden appearance of Dante's sole male assistant, a scrawny man with bulging eyes magnified even more so by thick spectacles.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized with a bow. "I didn't realize there was anyone in here."

"It's not important Frederick," said Dante. "The General here was just leaving anyways."

"Dante, I must advise—"

"Good day, General," she said sharply, meeting his burning eyes as he slowly rose to leave.

"This is not over, Dante," he seethed before finally storming out.

"Remember him," she whispered to her assistant as they watched him leave. "He could be of use to us in the future."

--

The General had never been one for idle threats, not with a standing army at his beck and call nor his own wealth of battlefield experience. But this type of battle was one he was unfamiliar with, one consisting of subtlety and underhanded trickery.

The intruder that stalked the facility, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. Above ground, dawn's morning light was a handful of hours away, but below the power and lights flickered, providing him all he needed to move unseen. He moved under the cover of darkness, darting from shadow to shadow with a fleet footed quickness that belied his large size.

He moved with more than just feline-like fluidity; not only knowing how to move, but _where_ to move. His march was direct, veering off course only when a late night wanderer happened to cross his furtive path. These people were easily taken care of, surprised screams dying in throats crushed by iron-cast hands. Crumpled bodies were easily stashed away, and his progress resumed.

The intruder paused at the door to the main labs, listening intently. Beyond the thick doors he could make out the distinct crackle of massive energies and machinery. This was it; just as the blueprints he had memorized had said.

The door swung open easily under the strength of his steel-forged arms. He was surprised they had not been locked, but then again, she had to know her project was on the way out. It was an inevitability she must have been expecting for over a year now.

All her foresight and planning meant nothing now though as the intruder darted swiftly into the room, shutting the door silently behind him. His padded boots made no sound against the steel floor as he approached her.

As if sensing his presence, she turned in the midst of her work. Her eyes widened with surprise, her mouth opening as his monstrous hands took her neck into them. Gears spun in the mechanisms as his fingers tightened, just enough to show her who was in charge.

"Your research notes," he said to her. "Where are they?"

Gasping breaths were her only reply, and he loosened his grip slightly. Grateful tears trickled down her face, but as a seasoned soldier, he recognized the familiar malice in those eyes.

"Don't make me repeat myself," he whispered menacingly. "Give me your notes."

"They are not here," she finally gasped.

"Then you are no good to me," he hissed, his iron grip tightening. "Blame yourself."

"That's enough, soldier," said a familiar voice at his back. Wheeling to face the voice, the intruder was astounded to see his military superior standing before him, decked out in full uniform.

"General, sir," he said, his grip suddenly hesitant. "But the mission; you wanted me to…"

"I know what I wanted, soldier," cut off the General briskly. "Release her at once."

Once clamped fingers opened reflexively, dropping the panting Dante to the floor.

"Her research notes are not here, sir," said the intruder. "I was to dispose of her if that was the case, as you ordered."

"Orders change, son," said the General, stepping forward. "Where are the others?"

"Others sir," wondered the intruder. "I came alone, as ordered, sir."

"Of course, of course," nodded the General. "You have done well; better than I would have ever expected. But your mission will ultimately be a failure."

"But why," he asked numbly.

"Because I finished my circle," wheezed Dante at his feet, clapping her hands together. Light erupted from his feet, surrounding and blinding him in a haze of cold energy.

"Wha-what is this," he cried, trying to lash out with his massive arms. But he suddenly realized he could not move them, and when the light dissipated, he knew why. The woman had used her accursed alchemy to fuse them together!

"I can handle the rest, mother," said the General. "Go to the infirmary."

The General watched her go as she stumbled dizzily out of the room, the baffled intruder continuing to struggle against his useless steel arms. To add to his astonishment, the General's body began to blur, like an image seen through a rain-soaked window. Left in his place stood a small boy not even in his teens, a twisted grin on his face.

"No one hurts mother," he said quietly, and before the intruder could reply, the boy leapt forward to wrap small childish hands around his throat, stronger than anything he had ever fought against in his life. What was this, he thought as he struggled for his life. Using strength spawned by desperation, the intruder swung his heavy steel arms into the boy's tiny body, but to no avail. No amount of effort would remove the rabid boy from atop him, and the intruder could only stare into his killer's young face, a look of utter despair in his sunken eyes.

--

Later, after the deed was done, the boy visited the infirmary to check on his mother. Three of the four cots in the infirmary were empty, and the boy was surprised to see Dante treating herself.

"He killed the rest of them," she said over her shoulder, her voice like gravel. "I found the other three in a closet."

The boy only nodded, coming to sit by her side, his head hanging.

"Are you okay," she asked, touching his shoulder.

"I am fine," he said, his eyes distant. "The intruder has been dealt with."

"It is never an easy task to cope with killing someone," she said weakly, trying to soothe the boy's torment. "Even a bad man such as he; it is normal to feel terrible." But when he turned to face her, she saw no indecision in those dark eyes.

"It was nothing," replied the boy simply. "_He_ was nothing."

"You are not upset," she asked, surprised by the chill in his voice.

"I am upset," admitted the boy. "Upset that it wasn't my father's throat that I just crushed."

* * *

_Notes: Sorry for the long delay, I've been struggling with quite a bout of writer's block of late. I knew where I wanted to take the action, but it just wasn't coming out smoothly; some of the sections here really reflect that, sadly, but a writer's got to focus on getting stuff out first, then reworking it later. _

_A couple things had to be scrapped, despite how neatly they would have fit into this chapter. One was William's journal: originally planned to be an insight into his mind, from young boy to full blown sociopath, it would show a growth of his mind, but a degeneration of his conscience. It was going to be very 'Flowers for Algernon' in its tone, but writing with intentional spelling errors really irks me. Dante was going to discover it, and see what a screwed up little kid she was raising, which of course wouldn't bother her in the slightest. _

_Another aspect that didn't make it in was William's rebirth/death. Originally, I was going to have Hohenheim burn down the hut with the homunculus in it (unintentionally starting the fire, but deciding not to stop it, which he could easily do), but after doing a bit of research, I found a fascinating account of this real-life alchemist who claimed to have created a homunculi, which knocked him over before escaping through the window into the night. I just loved that image and couldn't see this chapter not having it. _


	17. Equivalence

**Equivalence **

A single light dangled overhead, the bulb's glow barely reaching the distant ends of the dim cell. Few things in the northern region were probably colder than the water in that bucket, he thought, as its contents were tossed into his swollen face. And though the water was soothing against the bruises, it was hardly what he would call refreshing. His ragged breaths hung in the frigid air like icy smoke, masking the two grinning faces before him, smug in their power over another human being. Men such as these lived for such small things, unfulfilling lives highlighted by the meaningless drudgery of their cruel work.

"Your name," said one of them, long and lanky. "Again."

"Flamel…Nicolas Flamel," said the prisoner, panting from exhaustion.

The two men looked at each other, exchanging a skeptical look before turning to the fourth person in the room, a shadowed figure observing from the corner. A thin red light glowed at his mouth, a gust of cigarette smoke immediately following.

"He's lying," offered the shadow. "Again."

"The plank," asked the shorter guard. The other nodded, lifting the prisoners' feet for the other to savagely flog his heels. Each smack seemed to energize his attacker, each strike growing more savage. Luckily for the victim, his feet had long gone numb.

The shadow stopped the torture with a silent wave of his hand, stepping forward to sit in a chair facing the man. His face was hawkish, cruel, edged with hard lines and an upturned nose. He no doubt fashioned himself an aristocrat, but was probably born into the middle class or even poverty. A long seeded resentment of this fact made him perfect for the work of a sadist, thought the prisoner grimly. But the face he put on now was kind and understanding.

"You probably think my men are tiring, don't you, prisoner," he asked, not waiting for an answer. "But the truth is, I have a dozen more men out there, anxious to heap every abuse they can on your broken body. The winters up here are cold and lonely; their only amusement the few prisoners foolish enough to get caught up here. You see," he whispered, leaning forward confidingly, "I already know who you are. We all do. I just want to hear you say it."

"My name is Nicolas Flamel," repeated the prisoner, his eyes showing no fear.

"A liar has no place in this prison," said the man with the wave of his hand. "Criminals they may be, but this is a place of confession. Unbridle yourself with the miserable truth of your existence, and we will be more…pleasantly disposed towards you…that doesn't sound so terrible now, does it, prisoner?"

"I didn't realize church confessions reached this far north," said the prisoner, smiling tiredly.

"No, no church," said the hawkish man, shaking his head. "For there, they have forgiveness; here, you will find none. Remember that, if anything."

"Why do you care who I am," asked the prisoner.

"Because there are no secrets here," replied the man off handedly. "The military has decided that you are vital to our plans, that you can offer us the tide of war against the Ishbalans."

The prisoner laughed, his throat so dry that it came out only as a harsh rasp.

"Such a war is impossible to win, you fools," he cackled. "Even the most common of commoners knows this is a perpetual and fruitless war. Crushing the Ishbalan people will not bring peace to our countries; it will only plant hatred in the hearts of our enemies' children, to fuel future uprisings and war."

"Oh, and you are a scholar of diplomacy now, prisoner?"

"I am not blinded by duty, nor forced to heedlessly obey orders from on high," he said. "I am no dog of the military."

"Not yet," hissed the man angrily. "But soon, if you value your life."

And abruptly he stood, storming out of the room as the other two guards scampered to follow, casting the prisoner dour glances.

"We'll be back," they called over their shoulders. "Sleep with one eye open."

Their cackling laughter followed them down the hall, echoing off the stone walls to a distant nothing. It was not long after (or was it that long? It was impossible to tell with the endless winter nights here) that he heard something scuffling in the hallway. The prisoner raised his shivering head, preparing himself for more inevitable torture, when a new face appeared at the door. The man was nearing the latter part of middle age, his face haggard and worn. But still smiling warmly.

"Hohenheim of Light," he whispered. "It's been a long time."

--

The man at the cell's door grinned knowingly, his soft Nordic features somehow familiar. And though Hohenheim searched his memory of the man, his first thought was that this was a trap to lure out his true identity.

"My name is not—"

"Nonsense," said the guard, shaking his head. "I swear, you haven't aged a day, even after all these years…"

"I do not know you…or of whom you speak of."

"Let's not insult each other," said the man gruffly. "You are Hohenheim of Light, the one who once saved our northern valley from plague. And I should know," he said, bending over the undo the lock. "I did, after all, give you the name."

--

"And _your_ name, officer," asked Hohenheim suspiciously.

"Officer Petrok Kale," replied the man as the cell door popped open. "But my friends used to call me Petri…"

"What is this about, Officer Kale?"

"I guess you could call it 'equivalence'," said the guard. "You once risked your life to save ours, and now I am returning the favor."

"But they will lock you up in here if they catch you!"

"Are you really trying to convince me not to release you, Hohenheim," scoffed Kale. "And to think, it was you who once thought _me_ the fool…"

"The boy from the mountains," realized Hohenheim, getting dizzily to his feet. "Little Petri," he mumbled, looking the man over. "Has it been that long?"

"At least thirty years," said the officer, shouldering up his old friend. "Though you seem to have gotten the better end of the deal."

"Clean living, my boy," grinned Hohenheim weakly. "I would never have thought you one to sign up with the military."

"Later," replied Kale. "We have to get you out of here first, before the next shift comes."

--

The two men shuffled quickly through the dark corridors, passing empty, dusty cells; rusted chains hung limply from bonds cemented into frosted walls. Few men were imprisoned so far north, the most extreme of criminals executed swiftly and without mercy. Hohenheim shivered when he realized how close he was to becoming one of those ghosts.

"You never answered my question," said Hohenheim when he was certain they were alone. "Why would you ever enlist in the military?"

"It was after you cleansed the valley," replied Kale. "The raiders from the north, realizing our lands were once again clean and usable, pillaged and massacred our lands and villages," he added, shaking his head. "There was no one to stand up to those barbarians, especially not alone, nor even in our poorly organized groups made up of aging farmers and boys too young to grow beards. Our only choice to stand up to them was to join the military."

"So bad only came from my work," sighed Hohenheim tiredly. "Again."

"But without your purification of the valley, the raiders would never have come, and I would not have enlisted, to help you here today," countered Kale. "Is that not equivalence as well?"

"Be wary how easily you cast about that word," warned Hohenheim. "If one looks hard enough, one can always find clues to support any wild claim."

"Jaded as ever, eh Hohenheim," laughed Kale. "I suppose it's somewhat comforting to see that some things never change."

"And have you thought about the changes that are sure to come about once my escape and your role in it is discovered…?"

The man shrugged. "I learned long ago that which is out of our hands is best left out of our minds."

"An irresponsible credo if I ever heard one," mumbled Hohenheim.

"You certainly are an ungrateful one," grunted Kale as he shouldered the older man down a side passageway.

"Where are you taking me anyways?"

"There is an abandoned tunnel built into the lower base of the prison," answered Kale. "It was originally intended to for an escape for the prison administrators in the case of a riot, but having a backdoor escape route built into a jail is never a good idea, so it was carefully caved in years ago."

"A caved-in tunnel? What good is that going to do us?"

"What kind of obstacle is a caved-in tunnel to Hohenheim of Light," reminded the officer. "You once moved a mountain."

"Be that as it may, that was many years ago, and I hadn't been beaten for weeks on end before attempting it."

"It's that or we go back," said Kale, stopping. "You won't be able to scale the outer walls in your condition either; it's this or nothing."

"You always were one for extremes," sighed Hohenheim. "Let us continue onwards then."

--

The air grew damper as the pair descended into the bowels of the old prison. The winter's chill still clung to the cold corridors, however, the region perpetually locked in the bitter season.

"So what did they want from you, Hohenheim," asked Kale. "Weapons? Power?"

"They said they wanted me to train alchemists for the State," answered Hohenheim.

"That doesn't sound like too much," said Kale. "But I suppose a proud man such as yourself—"

"It has nothing to do with pride," said Hohenheim angrily. "The Ishbalan people are morally and religiously opposed to alchemy. For me to teach it to soldiers, who have not the proper respect for the cycle of life…it would demonize alchemy; which, in the proper hands, only improves our world."

"I imagine you are aware that there are already alchemists working for the military…?"

"Yes," nodded Hohenheim. "The other guards told me as much during one of my 'interrogations'. But by the tenacity of their torture…I would guess for not much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you see? This whole scenario has revolved around desperation; the State needs me because their other resident alchemist is on her way out, if not already."

"A woman," said Kale in disbelief. "It was a _woman_…? I'll be damned."

"Believe me," grunted Hohenheim. "If you knew her, that'd probably be the outcome."

"So why did you not try to escape already," asked Kale, as if suddenly realizing something. "If you knew they needed you alive, and with your abilities, what prison could ever hold you?" But as the question spilled from his mouth, he saw the answer in his old friend's weary eyes.

"You cannot allow yourself to be imprisoned by your guilt, Hohenheim," said the officer. "Men will forever be plagued by his sin; do not let that diminish the great things you have brought into this world."

"I have lived so long, Kale," said Hohenheim, falling wearily against a wall. "Sometimes I dream of how easy it would be, to give up and give in, plagued by the pain and suffering I have caused by simply doing what I thought was best."

"No matter the power you are blessed with, Hohenheim of Light, you are still just a man," soothed Kale, kneeling by his sunken friend. "Flawed, imperfect…that every man's death diminishes you does not rob you of your humanity; it validates it. You are a man of the people. Show me a man who does not doubt and I would show you a man without a soul."

"You have grown wise over the years, Petri of the northern valley," chuckled Hohenheim feebly. "Perhaps it was you who got the better end of the deal."

"Wisdom comes at the cost of youth," said Kale knowingly.

"I didn't realize they allowed fortune tellers into the military," Hohenheim shot back sarcastically as he got to his feet.

"Well, I thought I was on a roll," admitted Kale sheepishly. "The tunnel should be just up ahead."

--

With a simple clap and touch, Officer Kale of the northern militia witnessed something only a handful of people in the world had ever seen: a transmutation without a circle. Hard rock blended and molded, reshaping in a melted sea of soft gray matter swirling from congealed mass to upright pillars strong enough to support the mountain overhead.

"Amazing," he breathed. "That was…"

"Tiring," finished Hohenheim, grasping his friend's shoulder. "Let us go before the structure collapses again; surely the guards must have heard that commotion."

Above them, on the prison walls, the two men could indeed hear guards yelling, the shrill cry of the alarm piercing through the snowy night.

"We'd best hurry," urged Hohenheim. "We shall need every bit of a head start with the snow showing our tracks."

But his savior seemed to linger still at the mouth of the tunnel despite his warnings.

"We'll never make it," whispered Kale, turning to Hohenheim. The officer's fingers strayed to the butt of his pistol.

"Not if we stand here all night," replied Hohenheim, and he could make out lights at the end of the tunnel leading back into the prison. Without a moment's hesitation, he again brought his hands together and the tunnel's mouth came down in a thunderous crash, dust shooting out both ends in a choking cloud.

"That was certainly dramatic," coughed Kale, swiping at the dust in the air. "But they'll still be coming from the main gate. We should have about a half an hour lead by the time they circle around. Hopefully our tracks will be covered by then."

Quickly, the pair disappeared into the night, the sounds of scrambling men not so far behind.

--

Luck would not be on their side that night. The snow began to thin before stopping entirely. Hohenheim, in his weakened condition, was no match for the savage tundra of the mountain range, even with the aid of Kale. When the sounds of their pursuers finally reached their ears just before dawn, the two knew it was over.

"We'll split up here," said Kale. "I'll fake a limp to draw them in this direction; you'll have to straighten up and walk straight for a bit that way," he pointed. "Your path will be harder, so they will expect me to take it. The one I shall take is easier, downhill; they will think you took it in your weakened condition. Go through the woods there along your path; there is a fishing village upwards to the east. Follow the sunrise and you shall find it by the icy bank. There are kind people there, friends to any who escape that cruel prison, friends even more so to Hohenheim of Light."

"But what of you," asked Hohenheim. "What if they catch up to you?"

"Oh, they certainly will," admitted Kale. "But I was never one for life in the military," he said, his eyes sparkling. "There will be a trial, and no doubt a court martial, but they will understand when I tell them that you were the doctor that once saved my life."

"Doctor? But I—"

"Your identity must be protected, Hohenheim," said Kale patiently. "My freedom is a small price to exchange for that assurance. Now go," he ordered, beginning down the side path and dragging a foot behind him.

"Farewell, Petri of the northern valley," said Hohenheim wistfully, that day from so long ago in his mind.

"Remember to be one for the people, and you will never do wrong by humanity as long as you do," said Kale fondly. "Farewell, Hohenheim."

--

The ground grew hard as he trekked the high path, the air thinner. Trudging with a straightened gait, each agonizing step was forgotten as he considered the words his young friend had said to him. To be one for the people…he had once believed that, had once tried to live that way, but over the years he had forgotten the boundless optimism he had once approached his work with. Maybe this was what he needed to realize, that he could change, that things could be the way they once were.

This thought occurred to him just as he reached the peak of the path, overlooking the yawning valley below. A light snow had begun to fall, blanketing thinly dark trees. There was hope in this world, he whispered to himself, as there should be. His hand, extended, caught the gentle flakes, cupping them against the mild air. His mind, more accustomed to stress and worry, knew complete peace in that moment.

But like everything else in his life, it would not last.

Far below, he could see Kale hiking along his easier path, selling the limp as best he could. And not so far behind him, Hohenheim could see his pursuers. There was no way to give to warning from so great a distance, there was no way to help his friend. And so he could only watch with bated breath as the pursuit came to an end below.

--

"What did you think you were doing, Officer Kale," asked his superior, as he took away his sidearm. "What could you possibly have hoped to accomplish?"

The man stood stoically, unmoved by the anger in his superior's words.

"He was an innocent man," Kale finally replied. "I sought only to help him escape needless persecution."

"Have you any idea how important that man was to the military's plans?"

"Important to the military, or _your_ plans," shot back Kale. "Sir," he added as an afterthought, the word oozing with mock sincerity.

"I should have known," said the hawkish interrogator from the cell. "You are the only one in my unit from the northern region. It was only a matter of time before you let the legends circling that man to blind you from your duty."

"I know not of what you speak, sir," replied Kale. "The man I helped escape was but a doctor who had once saved my life."

"Your attempts at misdirection are as foolish as your failed escape, Kale," spat his superior. "Splitting company was pointless; with our superior numbers, we were also able to separate in our pursuit. But I suppose you didn't think of that," he said to Kale's surprised expression. "As you did not think over the consequences of your actions."

"He is of no use to the military," argued Kale.

"That is not your place to decide," said the man. "And you have shamed us all by taking such a matter into your utterly incapable hands."

"I regret nothing, and submit myself to trial," Kale said defiantly.

"There shall be no trial," said the hawkish man, raising Kale's handgun to his chest. "There is but one way to deal with a dog gone mad," he added, pulling the trigger.

--

Hohenheim heard the distant crack of the gun, saw his friend crumble in a heap. From his elevated height, he could hear nothing that was said, nor see the face of the man who shot Kale, yet some part of him knew with no degree of uncertainty that it was the hawkish and cruel interrogator who had performed the heinous task.

As strong a man as he was, he fell to his knees, sinking into the pits of guilt-ridden despair. Another death on his conscience. Sounds from down the path pricked his ears, disrupting his session of self-loathing. So the guards had broken into sets just as he and Kale had. Hurrying to his feet, Hohenheim continued down the hard trail, thoughts of his friend foremost in his mind.

--

It was as his friend had told him; the people of the fishing village were kind, almost eager to help an escapee from the prison. They fed him, clothed him, hid him amongst their tiny huts from the probing eyes of the searching guards. Life was safe, at least, if not altogether happy.

Another new life began to take shape there, and he did not resist the siren's call of the cold land. He told himself he was not hiding; after all, who would hide so closely to the prison he just escaped from? But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He hid, like he always had, afraid of what he might cause, and he sank into the fleeting years.

--

Far to the south breathed milder climes and complicated lives, lives that ran short as a soldier's bayonet, quickly as a rifle's bullet. War flowed from every region; bloody senseless slaughter melding into a turbulent ocean of wickedness.

There was more than the usual warfare wearing on the people of Amestris, however. The people stumbled listlessly through the filthy streets, careful to avoid one another and escape the sickness that had pervaded the homes and streets of the central city. Households both rich and poor suffered, the wealthy aristocrats hurling money at every empty promise of a cure, the impoverished driven to desperate acts of looting and thievery.

The standing military had been called in for more than just a couple such occasions, beating and kicking at the sickly hordes of citizens in need of medical attention. The Armstrong hospitals and clinics bent under the sheer weight of the infirmed masses, a mere shadow of their former selves.

"The authorities are growing suspicious, mother," said her son. "And the people are restless."

"It is as it has always been, then," said Dante tiredly, leaning against her pillows. The noon sun glared through her curtains, and she could not recall the last time she had slept so late.

"Are you well, mother," asked her bedside guardian, still in the form of a sickly young boy. "You have never slept this late," he added, and he should know, for he had watched over her as she slept since the attack at Lab Zero seven years earlier.

"There has been a particularly nasty bug going around," she smiled, and he returned it. "As you might be aware…"

"The city officials have been coming to the governor's office more and more lately, demanding he have the underground network checked."

"And what did our dear governor have to say about that?"

"He told them that digging should only be done by the proper authorities, of which they were most certainly not," said the boy proudly. "They did not take too kindly to that."

"Bureaucrats never like to be reminded that they fall under a higher power," she said. "But that was good, son…at least for now," she added. "What of the civilian resistance?"

"Their leader is still difficult to locate, mother," he said. "I have hardly been able to find out any of his inner circle to mimic, so we have to be absolutely certain of our information before I attempt infiltration."

"You have someone in mind?"

"Yes," nodded the boy. "His son."

"I suppose that is appealing to you in more ways than one," she noted, to which the boy smiled darkly. "But do exercise discretion…I am rather worried about these city officials, however. If they are already this close to the truth, it could pose a problem for our plan."

"I can continue the governor's charade for as long as you wish," said the boy proudly. "It is no difficult task, nor is deflecting their inquiries."

"Yes, I imagine it is not difficult for a talented boy like you, my son, but there is always the military State to worry about…that self-nominated Fuhrer could impose his will on the administration, forcing you out, if you continue to seem apathetic to the public eye."

"He would not dare," seethed the boy. "And even if he tried, I could easily kill him."

"No doubt about that," agreed Dante. "But the military might be just what we need to finalize our little act…"

"What do you mean, mother?"

"We move ahead of schedule," she replied with a thick cough. "Which means calling in an old favor."

--

"You look well, Dante," he said as he entered her room.

"You never were as good a liar as you thought, Greeley," she said from her chair. The balcony beyond her overlooked the city with a magnificent view, but his eyes were set on her alone. "Please…sit," she beckoned.

"I am a bit out of practice," he said, taking a seat. "After all, the life of a military alchemist is one of honesty and integrity."

"Always setting an example for the young ones, eh, Gabriel?"

He laughed, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes darkening. "As always, Dante…but the new recruits are hardly worth training. The General has me teaching them deconstruction only; putting things back together is something they want no part of, no matter its practical applications."

"Destruction has always been integral to warfare," nodded Dante. "But I am glad to see you…happy in your new position with the military."

"It was a victory by default," he sighed. "When Lab Zero collapsed and you disappeared, and Hohenheim drowned during his failed prison escape, I was the only one qualified to even read the lost manuscripts, much less teach them."

"Yes," she nodded wistfully. "Those were some hard years, Gabe. Losing Hohenheim and William, so close together…" Her voice trailed off.

"Well, I know you didn't call me from your imaginary grave to reminisce, Dante," said Greeley. "What is it you want?"

"You have been away from Central for a long time, haven't you," she began, not waiting for him answer. "The general populace is going mad, ready to riot and tear apart the city. This sickness that is circulating…it is seeping into their minds as we speak, Gabe. It is only a matter of time before the city tears itself apart."

His brow furrowed in thought at her words, the wrinkles so much more prominent than she remembered. Were they really this old already?

"Why are you telling this to me, Dante?"

"The military is the only group strong enough to stabilize the city," she replied, her eyes wandering to the cityscape below. "And those in the military that would believe who I really am would want me dead. You are the only one I can trust within them."

"I'm flattered," he said, and she could tell he meant it. They were too old for sarcasm.

"The rumors of an armed uprising, Greeley…I can assure you that they are most certainly true. A group who fashion themselves as 'resistance fighters' seeks to overthrow the governor, and install themselves as the city's leaders."

He nodded as she spoke, the rumors reaching far beyond the city's walls. "That is nothing new," he said. "But what makes you so certain of this happening?"

"Have I ever been certain of anything that proved to be wrong," she asked, setting those still-brilliant eyes on him.

He did not need to search his memory to know the answer to her question.

"What do you want me to do," he asked.

* * *

_Notes: Shorter chapters are going to be on the agenda for the future, as certain storylines are going to be trimmed, some altogether removed (only two chapters left!). I tried to make this chapter as sparse as possible, relying on the dialogue, and the prison escape sequence was dramatically shortened. One aspect that was entirely removed was Hohenheim's new life at the fishing village, dwelling in his guilt and trying to just hide from life. The part where Greeley mentions Hohenheim's drowning was part of the cover-up the prison officials used to hide their own failure, and that was going to be a whole other scene where the prison warden (hawkish guy) conspires with the other men. Neither was important, so both were cut, as was Dante's destruction of Lab Zero (which would have explained William's second "death")._

_One aspect that should be mentioned is that in the show, Amestris is a country, not a city, much like Xing. For the purposes of this story, though, Amestris is a city. However, a historical footnote to interest FMA fans: the 'lost city' in the manga was actually Xerses, named for the fabled conqueror featured in the recent film '300'. His wife was named Amestris, the country where FMA begins. Xerses is destroyed to create a stone in the manga, so what about Amestris…? Rather interesting, I'd say._


	18. Betrayal

**Betrayal **

The bottle was safe. It was deep and dawning, infinite in its murky depths and lucid reflections. He liked what he saw in that liquid, perhaps more what he didn't see. He didn't see a world spoiled by his actions, tainted by his choices. He saw only other men and women like he, surrounded by the drab drudgery of their lives, and accepting of it. They welcomed apathy with open arms, minds and souls hazy with dysfunctional, impossible yearning.

He had crawled helplessly into the bottle for the first time in his long lifetime, and found an unfamiliar comfort in the bitter taste. Forcing it down with a reflexive grimace, memories washed away with the liquor. Or so he thought.

It was only after years and years of the same self-abuse that he realized the truth to his drunken daze; he saw it often enough in his companions at the local watering hole, their tales of woe and regrets. Pouring booze on the memories seemed to silent them for a short while, but they would soon enough resurface, as vivid as ever.

There was no formula, no equivalence to lose memories; they could not be lost so easily, nor a clean slate gained. And there were memories he wanted to keep, no matter how painful they were. His son's innocent smile…his love's first touch…laughter, shared and beautiful. He remembered a promise he made long ago, one he had nearly forgotten along with the rest, and it cleared his clouded mind. His slouch straightened, his strength returned, and he finally left the village to renew a journey nearly forgotten.

--

Eyes that could be any color he chose stared from the darkness. Skin as dark as he wanted blended into the settled gloom, the city streets all but deserted in the wake of the latest rash of fallen ill. Even though the degenerates that lurked in the city's filthy alleyways had long abandoned them, the man moved with trepidation, as if aware he were being watched.

Dusk descended on the silent city, the few brave souls on the street scurrying to the safety of their homes when his target led him to a familiar destination. High white pillars adorned the front of the massive house; the roof peaked with slanted gables and circular turrets sitting at the corners. It was a magnificent home, fit for his mother.

She opened the door now, letting the man in, and the boy grew anxious. Hands formed into claws, he scaled the high wall to reach the overhead balcony before concealing himself again amongst the shadows.

He could hear his mother's laughter down the hallway, light but strained. It came closer as she guided her guest to the room, the lilting lullaby of her sweet voice like music to his ears. But over the past years, he had noticed the hardening edge to it, almost rough. In the rare instance she had an early morning, it would begin with a fit of violent coughing, her entire body shuddering from within.

The man beside her also seemed to be suppressing a shuddering excitement as he entered the ornate bedroom. He had been there, weeks earlier. It was then that the boy began to grow suspicious of him, for hadn't everyone she knew died in the collapse of the lab that night? And suddenly, the boy remembered, the aged face falling into place, snapping like the last piece of a puzzle in his memory: Greeley. After all these years, Greeley had not died long ago in the war like he had believed, had not died a hero on the battlefield as his mother had once told him.

--

"Dante," began Greeley, looking about the ornate bedroom. "A gentleman caller, this late, in your bedchambers…what will the people say," he asked with a devilish smile.

"Hardly any concern of mine," she said. "For you are no gentlemen, day or night."

"Such harsh words for an old friend," he chuckled. "After what I have done for you?"

Dante's eyes sparkled. "Your recommended course of action was approved?"

He nodded slightly, pouring himself a drink. "It was…the military are anxious to quell an uprising and show their superior power over the indecisive government offices."

"You are certain? You heard the Fuhrer approve the offensive?"

He nodded again, sipping from the glass. "Good stuff," he noted with a swirl of the cup. "And the Fuhrer has not only given the go-ahead, he has given me complete authority over the matter," he added with more than a bit of pride.

"Oh, Gabriel, I knew I could count on you," she gushed, placing her hand on his. His eyes widened in brief surprise before setting down the glass to clasp her hand between his.

"Till the very end, Dante," he said firmly. "I only wish…I only wish we had more years ahead of us, to continue from where we once left off. But to finish our work…that should count for something. The generations shall remember us fondly, at least."

"We could have shared a great love, Gabriel," she said wistfully. "But not all hope is lost…"

"What do you mean," he asked, hope creeping into his voice.

"There is a way for us to be together, to live beyond these withering, decrepit bodies of ours…but you must have absolute trust in me to be successful. Can you do that?"

"I can," he nodded, stiffening in his chair.

"Then let me ask you: can you abandon the life you once led, and the lives of your men?"

"Why," he said quietly, suspicion filling his eyes.

"The Philosopher's Stone," she whispered. "I have always known how to forge one, Gabriel, but the risk was always too great, the ingredients too valuable."

Something clicked in his head. "You mean to sacrifice the military and the people of Amestris, don't you?"

She nodded, her eyes locked onto his. "Their sacrifice is necessary, Gabriel…we cannot proceed unless you come to accept the fact that their lives would be forfeit."

"But…my men," he faltered, until he felt her hand gently cupping his face.

"With the Stone we can finally be together, Gabe," she said. "We can abandon these aged bodies and be as we were meant to be; young…beautiful…perfect…"

"Together," she repeated lightly, her fingers stroking under his chin.

"Why now," he demanded angrily, brushing her hand aside. By the look on his face, though, it was clear he already missed her touch. "Why _now_ of all times?"

"Because we are nearing life's end, old friend," replied Dante bluntly. "Do you not feel it, every morning, every breath…your body coming closer to death?"

"But…we have years yet left to us, Dante," he said weakly, his head bowed.

"You are the only one I can count on to do this, Gabriel," she said quietly. "I will soon be dead unless we gain a Stone."

"What about your research into the red water," he argued. "Surely that must have borne some fruit!"

"All the research was destroyed when those agents raided Lab Zero, Greeley," she said, put off. "Surely you would remember that."

"You cannot ask me to do this, Dante," he pleaded. "To kill thousands of people, to knowingly betray those pledged to honor and follow me…"

"There might be a way around that," she said thoughtfully.

"How?"

"Defer command to General Armstrong during your initial march through Central," suggested Dante. "He would gladly lead men to such an easy battle, to such easy slaughter."

"But they would still die all the same!"

"But not under your command," she shrugged. "History would forgive you."

"How can we be certain the transmutation would even work," he asked doubtfully. "My research stopped the day I left Lab Zero; I could hardly know how to work something so powerful!"

"_I_ know," said Dante firmly. "And though you may not know this, old friend…this wouldn't be the first time a Stone has been forged under my care."

"You cannot be serious," he said, but there was a wavering doubt in his voice.

"Do you remember the day we met, Gabriel, all those years ago?"

"Of course," he replied, for that day had been burned into his memory.

"Do you remember the Dante you sought, her description?"

"I do," he said quietly, recalling the facts in his mind. "It cannot be," he finally realized, looking at her with a newfound sense of awe.

"It is," assured Dante. "Not just I, but Hohenheim as well. Both of us have lived for longer than any human being has had a right to…we jumped bodies to preserve our own lives, utilizing the first Stone we created before your grandfather was even born. How else could you explain the military seeking us so many years after our births?"

He shook his head, for he could not explain.

"That could be _us_ this time around, Gabriel," she said lovingly. "No one but us…what say you to that…?"

And when his eyes finally met hers, she already knew his answer.

--

Something burned in the boy's heart. Some smoldering flame, mixed of love and hatred, something like jealousy. Jealousy was one of the few emotions he truly felt, and he had known its pain since awakening. Mother had always made him a priority, but there were always others clamoring for her attentions and affections, others to distract her from the one person who truly cared for her.

He had taken care of those people easily enough, strangled that former lab assistant and drove her one-time maid to suicide by jilting her in the form of a long-lost love. Carefully veiled accidents were another method he enjoyed, the precision and planning catering to the efficient, dark voices in his head.

It would probably be difficult for most to live without a heart. For him, it was second nature. And now that Greeley, a man who had once loved his mother above all others, had returned, he couldn't shake the feeling that an accident would soon befall the old man as well.

--

"What about the risk," asked Greeley later. "You said it was too dangerous to attempt; what if something should happen to me when I close the circle?"

"The Stone will synthesize, regardless of a possible backlash," explained Dante. "I would be there to recover the Stone and swap your soul into another body once I had it in my hands, of course, as I have done several times before."

"But what if I should die beforehand?"

"The soul lingers," replied Dante. "Longer than you might imagine…there would be plenty of time to save you."

"I cannot do so massive a circle in so little time," he complained. Dante only heard him trying to convince himself the task was impossible.

"I shall draw it," she said. "I will leave the last phase of the transmutation to you, to ensure that I can transfer your soul into a new body should something go wrong."

"But why me? Why cannot you close the circle?"

"And if something should go wrong…? Could you take the Stone and make the transfer with your limited experience," she asked doubtfully. "Really, Greeley…please put some thought into your weak excuses."

"What of Armstrong? What if he grows suspicious of me?"

"Have you grown that terrible a liar in your old age, Greeley," scoffed Dante. "The General will insist on meeting and accompanying you once your force marches into Central. The slightest bit of doubt expressed on your end will be all the bait he needs to assume command, which you of course will acquiesce to once Amestris comes into view. Once you have extricated yourself from command, it is only a matter of closing the circle that I will have prepared for you after the army blindly marches in."

"And are you able bodied enough to traverse the city limits, to draw the transmutation circle…?"

"Enough of these doubting questions," Dante ordered angrily. "I can complete my end of the task easily enough; the only question here is whether or not _you_ can."

"There _is_ one more question," he said carefully. "Is all of this really about the Stone and us, Dante, or is it about revenge?"

"Why, whatever do you mean," she asked.

"It is no small coincidence, nor secret, that the success of General Armstrong's auto-mail project left Lab Zero at the mercy of the military committee, and his attempts to later steal and destroy your research are well known. I would hardly be surprised if you still blamed him for your…son's death, even after all these years."

"I am hardly that petty," replied Dante haughtily. "You know I was never fond of Lab Zero, nor the research I conducted there. It was merely a means to an end."

"And…William," he asked, forcing himself to say the name.

"William died long before the roof of the Lab collapsed," she said faintly. "A mother has to accept her child's death; if not after the first time, at the very least, the second."

--

Gloom clung to the craggy walls, moisture dripping from stalactites to the rocky earth below in rhythmic blips. One would have thought she was well-accustomed to working underground by now, but this natural excavation was nothing like the modern laboratory afforded her by the military. There was no modern convenience; nothing but what was absolutely necessary.

She toiled by the reassuring glow of the lantern, the only artificial light in the entire cavern. Dim red light glistened from below, off the wet rocks, shimmering with the flow of the underground river.

It had been hard, grueling work over the years, diverting the path of the red waters into Amestris. Certainly she could have done it in one fell swoop, but such a reshaping of the terrain would more than likely have raised suspicion. And if Dante was anything, she was patient. Little by little she molded the underground passageways to her whim, her only reward the smug satisfaction that those above were none the wiser that death was coming to them.

"Mother," came a voice from behind her, and she whirled in surprise.

"You startled me," she gasped as the boy emerged from the shadows, for he had truly snuck upon her completely unawares.

"I apologize," he bowed, but she could tell he was rather pleased at his stealthy approach.

"How goes your infiltration," asked Dante, composing herself.

"I have found the resistance's central base, and spent the last two days observing their operations," replied the boy. "Have you been down here since then?"

She nodded, coughing into a wrinkled hand.

"Mother," said the boy, looking at the heavy gloom around them. "You know the air down here is terrible, and to be so close to the crimson waters, all the time…that cannot be good for your health."

"Health is the least of my concerns," she said, brushing aside his concern. "Not with a Stone so close to my grasp."

"You rely that much on…that military puppet," asked the boy doubtfully, turning towards the shadows. "Is he so reliable, a man without a conscience?"

"He is a man blinded by love and passion," she replied quietly. "He wants more what he cannot have, like all men. And what man can claim ultimate power," she asked with a lusty smile.

"You know this man well," he asked, probing. He wanted her to tell him the truth. At the very least, she could trust _him_, he thought bitterly.

"For quite a long time," she said. "From before you were born."

"He sounds like a strong man," baited the boy. "I wish I could have known him."

"Alas," replied Dante. "Life is full of regrets, my son."

He realized then, something he had long suspected, but never lent credence to: _Mother was a liar_.

--

Days later, he was still shaky from the realization. For he had been born a thing without trust, without emotions, yet he had genuinely cared for her. She had guided him, nurtured him, and had been the closest thing to family a creature such as he could hope for (if he were actually capable of hope).

He was lost in his thoughts as he meandered through the city streets, surprisingly dense considering the latest outbreak. Packs of people buzzed under a gentle sun, milling about the marketplace as if there were no worries, no sick loved ones at home. It was almost as if the people could sense something major was brewing by a smell in the air.

Or perhaps the information network for the insurgents was not as tightly guarded as it once was. Perhaps the citizens had heard the whispered rumors circulating through the dusty streets. Or perhaps, even, they were simply fed up with being cooped up within their houses after the long weeks, growing so anxious as to risk infection by coming out.

It was a beautiful day, after all, the cloudless sky under a velvet sun, a cool breeze creeping from the coast without the slightest bit of humidity. The people in the camp toiled away under the cool shade of canopies, moving boxes and supplies, undaunted by the enormity of their resistance work. There was an almost palpable synergy to the camp, the people spurred by the perceived purity of their cause.

Mother should be out here, he thought, immediately angry at himself for thinking so. She had not seen fit to trust him, and part of him wondered how far back her mistrust extended. Had she ever trusted him? Had any of her confessions ever been true?

But he pushed those worries aside, himself anxious to complete his assignment whether or not he could still trust her. Murder was really so much more soothing than mother's most tender of ministrations, and betrayal appealed to his every sensibility. That is, when he was on the giving end, of course.

And approaching him now was his target, the grizzled but charismatic leader of the insurgents. He saluted at his approach; this was not the kind of man to be greeted with a smile, no matter how warm it was. If it wasn't business, he wasn't interested, even regarding his own son.

Oh, how sweet this would be, thought the boy.

--

The leader stopped at the mouth of his tent, pausing only to glance at his son for a moment. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned to his son to enter. The boy obeyed, his course of action slowly building in his mind.

The tent was sparse, the only light streaming from outside. The man fell heavily into a seat, motioning to his son to take one as well.

"How go the preparations, Harris," he asked gruffly. The boy was no surprised by his singular mindset, as over the past weeks the man had spoke of nothing but the uprising.

"They are nearly complete, father," replied the boy, and as if an afterthought: "Sir."

The man nodded, stroking the fuzzy beard beginning to thicken under his square jaw, blue eyes far off in thought.

"And you, son? Are you ready to fight when the time comes?"

"Of course," answered the boy. "I am a child no longer."

"Do not be in a rush to grow up, Harris," said the leader with a sigh, rubbing his temples. "I wonder, sometimes…if I was selfish to bring you in here, greedily seeking any healthy body I could enlist for the cause…a father should know better," he finally added.

"I live only for the cause, father, and I fight only for you," said the boy, pouring his father a drink. "The time is nearly at hand; we must have no doubts if we are to succeed."

"You have learned much over these short months," noted the father, taking the proffered cup and finishing it with a single gulp. "In fact, I always meant to say—" He stopped, looking dizzily at the empty cup in his hand. "I…wanted to say…"

"What is it, father," asked the boy, a grin spreading across his face. "Having trouble opening up, as usual?"

"What…what did you give me," gasped the man, stumbling from his chair. Before he could take another step, he suddenly vomited to the floor, a bloody puddle at his feet. Another step and he sank into it, his balance reeling.

"The extract of an exotic root from the east," replied the boy, looking at his nails. "It was something made special, just for you…'father'. The immediate reaction from the body is quite wondrous, is it not?"

"Wuh-why," he asked, bloody bubbles formed at the edge of his mouth.

"I am tired of being your valet, your whipping boy, your constant object of disappointment," said Harris, crouching down before his father. "But more than anything else, I am sick of you being my father," he added with a gusty whisper, wrapping his hands around his father's massive neck.

And though the man was easily double his son's size, strung with iron wrought muscles, he could not break the small boy's grip. Could the poison have been so strong, he thought weakly. It was only when he finally saw a malevolent glow in his eyes and felt sharp thumbs pierce into his jugular that he realized it wasn't his son at all. But by then he was already dead.

--

Metal shod boots pounded the earth, crunching the rocks and raising dust as the march continued. The column of men stretched the entire length of the road, led by armored horsemen and weapon-bearing wagons.

The soldiers marched with the stride of the confident, hungrily anticipating their destination and goal. It was closer now, coming closer with every step of the march. There was no doubt to the outcome, no hesitation on the part of any of the soldiers.

All but one. One man sat stoically atop his horse, guiding the march. Some of the soldiers cast him sideways glances, searching for any trace of resentment in his face since his command had been usurped by the still-boisterous General Armstrong. But there was no semblance of any emotion on that tired old man's face.

Though his eyes were vacant, if one were to peer into that man's mind, they would have seen doubts swirling in a clouded mind, morality and desire clashing in a jumbled psyche. Only one image remained visible in that turbulent mental storm, only one face stood out from the questions and doubt and self loathing: Dante.

Dante, he repeated to himself, again and again. Dante.

--

Noon had come and gone in the city, only the hardiest of city folk stumbling out from the safety of shaded canopies and shadowed watering holes. The sun beat down on the landscape, but a breeze from the west was doing what it could to cool the air.

News of the approaching military had reached the public, many citizens packing up their belongings and fleeing the city limits in wagons and caravans. More, however, decided to make their stand, to overthrow the administration that seemed to care so little for its people. There were still images of the ill burned into their memories, imprisoned on deathbeds, and the righteous anger and bubbling indignation would no go away so easily, even with the threat of violence.

People had gathered in the city square, milling about and gossiping of the impending arrival of the military. Some shouts rang out, lost quickly in the hundred rambling conversations and voiced fears.

It was only when the leader of the resistance strode confidently to the center pulpit that a hush fell over the crowd.

"Fellow citizens," he began, his brazen voice reaching every ear of the audience. "As you have well heard by now, the military has sent its rabid attack dogs to our fair city, for the purpose of crushing our movement. I understand that not all of you are for our cause. Many have already fled, but not you. Many of you stay with loved ones befallen by the plague. To you, our hearts go out, for we have all been tainted by this same plague that our city's leaders do nothing to stop.

That the powers that be have deemed it necessary to send their lapdogs validates our cause. Don't you see? Only because we have mattered, have been a threat, have signaled for change, that they have come to fear us. We have done nothing to harm our city, nor the people within it. We have bombed no buildings, taken no hostages. Our corrupt governor remains safe within his mansion; we have raised no arms to him. And yet they send their strongest forces to destroy us! They expect us to yield in the face of such opposition, not knowing that we have already accepted death into our city's walls!"

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the leader paused, waiting for it to quiet before continuing.

"We have come to this place by our own devices, confronted with forces beyond our control. But history will know us, even should all of us come to die; history will remember what we stood for this day. Remember that when their forces are bearing down on us, seeking to destroy everything we hold dear! Remember that we only stand and fight to protect what is ours, and what is right! Is common decency too much to expect from our leaders? Or concern? Is health and safety too much to expect from our government? One that taxes and levees our wages, our trade?

No! No, we cry! We can scream it from our rooftops, from the warmth of our homes, but they would not hear us until now! Only now, when they see our stockpile of weapons, feel the power of our passion, only then did they hear! Our weapons will cry as loudly as our words, for now is the time for action! Now is the time for battle! Who amongst you will stand with us, and fight for tomorrow? WHO?"

And as one, the entire crowd cheered on their new leader, thrusting fists into the air in reply. More than a few of these fists clenched weapons, ready to shoot and kill.

The cloud of dust loomed just beyond the horizon, inching closer and closer.

--

The insurgents abandoned the last of their supplies, stacking boxes into barricades, shutting off the entrances to the city. Sick loved ones were seen to, prayers shared and last rites given in hurried whispers.

The leader oversaw everything, moving from station to station, examining and rechecking every setup. A familiar face strode toward him, one he knew to be a close friend, and the leader felt a slight panic when he could not remember his name.

"Marcus," called the unknown man. "That was quite a rousing speech you gave today."

"Thank you, old friend," said Marcus with a slight bow. "I just hope it isn't my last."

His friend laughed gustily, clapping him on the shoulder. "I did not see your son amongst the crowd, though. Is Harris well?"

"The boy is fine," nodded Marcus, resetting the ammo cache for the nest. "Reinforce this wall," he instructed to one of the new recruits, who quickly leapt to obey.

"Did you talk to him, as we spoke of earlier?"

"Ah, yes, of course," replied Marcus, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Just as we agreed upon," he added, trying to inch away from the conversation.

"This is important, Marcus," urged the man. "Harris is going to fight with us today, possibly die. At the very least, a son should die knowing how much his father loves him."

"I…I have been hard on the boy," offered Marcus, looking away. Memories of a sinking sack, bubbling as it disappeared into placid waters flickered across his mind. "But I have made certain he is aware of my…feelings, old friend. Rest assured he knows the truth."

"Then I am glad," smiled the man, turning to return to his post. "Give them hell, Marcus."

Stopping to admire his reflection in a store window, the leader chuckled to himself: "We'll all get our share of it yet."

--

"The pawns are nearing the city limits, mother," said the boy, returned to his former shape. "Your speech worked wonderfully; the resistance is ready for war, laying a trap for the military that they'll never have a chance to spring."

"Excellent work, my son," said Dante, her voice echoing off the cavern's walls. "The transmutation circle is completed as well. All we do now is wait…"

"But what of your military puppet," insisted the boy. "What if he is to fail?"

"Then we try again," she said hollowly. The boy could finally see the faintest worry in her hardened eyes; perhaps this really was her last chance.

"I shall attend to it, mother," said the boy, leaping towards the exit. "You can count on me," he called over his shoulder.

Dante returned to her work at the table, comforted by the gushing flow of the red water through the dark cavern. A sudden noise disrupted her thoughts, from the mouth of the cavern.

"Back already," she asked, turning and expecting to see her son. From the depths of the shadows appeared a ghost.

"Hello Dante," said Hohenheim.

--

He watched the marching procession with hawkish eyes, dark pupils shrinking against the light of the blazing sun. A sharp set of eyes could pick out a few soldiers in that low cloud of dust, but his eyes were as sharp as he willed them to be, and so he could pick out the individual men quite easily.

There. At the front of the force, he saw his target, the slouching man with the wrinkled face. It seemed he had already relinquished command, as Dante had suggested, as he rode glumly beside the rigidly upright Armstrong.

They would all be dead by the end of the day, he promised himself. Even Greeley, who the boy had once hoped to be a father to him; he would die exceptionally well.

--

"I thought you were dead," she said flatly.

"And is this your way of mourning," he challenged, looking at the gloom around them.

"I grieved long ago for you," she insisted. "Though I do not expect you to understand that."

"You know nothing of grief, Dante, or you would not be doing this again."

"I do what I must; is that not why you are here? To see the pinnacle of our craft, once initiated by your hand, perfected now by mine?"

"I have come only to stop you," he replied firmly. "Too many will die here this day."

"They are but men," she spat. "Fighting men, whose only contribution in this world is murder, and destruction…! What are they to you, Hohenheim, but fodder for a Stone?"

"Every man's death diminishes me," he answered. "No matter who he is, or the course of his life…every life has value Dante."

"And have you stopped to think of the value of death," she argued. "Every man's death invigorates me, Hohenheim…it fills my heart with energies so brilliant that they cannot be described, nor understood by the common people of this world. You have forgotten that, haven't you, the joyous rush of power, the ecstasy?"

"I have not forgotten," he replied tiredly. "Such power is elusive for a reason, Dante, and fleeting. Humans are not meant to hold such greatness in our hands. We are flawed beings, dominated by sin…and sin can never die. You speak of the evil those men above us inflicted upon the world; what then would you say to them gaining such power?"

"I am but an elderly woman now," she said quietly, looking at her wrinkled hands. "While you remain young. What power grants you such luxury, Hohenheim? What right have you to judge me for seeking the same power that you use so brazenly? For that matter, how do you intend to stop me? To kill me, using that very same power you criticize me for?"

"We should never have come to this, Dante," he said wistfully. "We all owe one death. It is more than simple equivalence; it is the first law of life."

"I have never led a life limited by the law of others," she said. "And I do not intend to begin now. But if you still insist on dying," she added calmly, "I shall be more than happy to oblige you…"

**_To be continued…_**

* * *

_Notes: Okay, I broke this chapter into two parts because, well…it was too long. So I sort of broke my promise about the story ending in two chapters. Make it three. Plus an epilogue. The latter part of this story's plot is coming together better than I expected, but the writing itself isn't as good as I hoped it would be. It's just felt really draining to stick to the same central characters for so long, to keep them honest and familiar. This is by far the longest ff I've ever written, and I've had to cut a good quarter or so of my original ideas just to make it readable._


	19. Betrayal Part II

**Betrayal (continued)**

The earth shook as the first wave of mortars fell against the city walls, kicking dust high enough to blot out the sun. It was beyond anything any of the men had ever experienced, the impact of something so powerful as to jar loose one's teeth. Buildings crumbled under the hail as many tried to flee, only to realize they were surrounded on all sides. Boys eager to be called men knew true futility in those first minutes of battle, yearning desperately for their once-safe beds and mother's soft arms. One tried to surrender to the soldiers, waving his hands frantically, but was riddled with bullets before he could be heard. Another curled up in a ball, tears streaming down his boyish face as he rocked back and forth, telling himself it was all just a bad dream.

The military forces closed in, their march relentless.

--

While death and destruction ran amok above ground, a different type of battle was being waged far below. The rushing red waters grew turbulent as the air in the cavern became deathly still, the two combatants glaring at each other. Both knew the outcome of the duel would echo down the ages, and so no quarter was expected, nor given.

Though the two had not spoken in decades, Hohenheim was still assured of his ace in the hole. He had always been her superior, the head of their team, the visionary of their work. She had brought the passion, the faith, the heart. A contest of alchemy would surely be a one-sided affair, he thought.

And like so many other times, he was right. With a simple clasp of his hands and a touch of the ground, the crags at her feet melted and reformed into a tight cage of rock strips. So narrow was the space that the close quarters made it impossible for her to draw a circle. Her withered hands hung limply between the stone tentacles, resigned in defeat.

"It is over, Dante," he said quietly.

"Are you so certain, my love," she asked, looking up at him with a grin. Before he realized what was happening, she clapped her hands together and pressed them to her stone prison, reshaping them into a large, singular spike of bone that launched forwards and through his chest, blood spraying every which way.

"_Now_ it is over," she gloated. "You think you are the only one to learn how to transmute without a circle? Your pride was always your downfall, to think that none other could equal you, much less surpass you…I only hope you are able to acknowledge from the afterlife that I have done both."

A look that was almost remorseful overcame her aged face as she stood by the body of the man she had once loved above all else. She reached to touch his still-warm cheek, one she had nuzzled against a thousand times, a memory of absolute intimacy.

"You always cared too much," she whispered distantly. But as she pulled away, she felt something else holding her in place. It was with the utmost of surprise that she realized it was Hohenheim's hand.

"You never cared enough," he growled through his bloodied mouth, throwing her back. Old as she was, she crashed roughly to the packed earth, followed by the familiar sound of transmutation as he reduced her battering ram to sand.

"How—how can it be," asked Dante, seeing the gaping hole in his chest. It was only after closer inspection that she saw his blood crystallize as it met the air, and understood.

"You once dismissed my idea of artificial bodies as 'foolish', Dante…but I have nearly perfected the process," he said, as he got to his feet with a grimace. "See the results for yourself…"

"Not perfect, though," she noted. "Or you would have made it feel no pain."

"Pain is an integral part of living, as is loss; no power can change that, Dante, though you believe the Stone makes you the exception to all rules."

"So you will kill me now," she whimpered, her crumpled old body void of energy. "With no regrets?"

"I…I…must, regrets or not," he faltered before showing her the steely resolve in his eyes.

Dante closed her eyes, the will to live slowly slipping away. She had never been ready to face her ultimate demise, but this time was different somehow. This would be at the hands of the man some part of her still loved, still cherished. This was the father of—

"You will do nothing," interrupted a voice from the shadows. "Surely not touch her again."

"Who goes there," called Hohenheim, readying himself for another battle. Had Dante actually taken another into her confidence? He did not think it possible, but remembering the tumble her aged body took at his slight shove, it was highly likely she would need the aid of another.

"Someone who should have stayed dead," called the disturbingly familiar voice. "If you got your wish…"

"Show yourself," cried Hohenheim angrily, his shouts echoing off the walls. "Coward!"

"I am as my father made me," said William, stepping forth from the shadows.

--

The first stage of the military massacre had been swift and terrible. The insurgents had fallen back from the city's perimeter, leaving the corpses of their friends behind them. Military-issued boots trampled the splintered barricades and puddles of blood, the smell of gunpowder filling the air.

"Ah, now _this_ is the way a battle should be fought," roared Armstrong, guiding his horse up and down the column. "I can already taste victory!"

The men cheered, buoyed by their success, eager for more easy bloodshed.

"Where is Greeley," he called. "His doubts should be well put to rest by now!"

"General, sir," waved one of the squad leaders. "I lost sight of Greeley just outside the city…"

"Curse him for a coward then," spat Armstrong, filled with bloodlust. "After all the faith and trust I put into him…? Forward, men!"

The columns of men began to push through each of the city's entrances, nearing the center. A few observant eyes caught notice of the jagged lines along the roads, but none had any sense of their scope or reason, and so nothing was reported to their respective leaders.

--

Outside the city walls, Greeley stood where the circle nearly met. It would be so simple, just to draw a line, no more than ten inches across, into the sand, and touch it. It sounded simple in his head, the image of the task clear, but irresolute.

He could not draw the circle. Some part of him that screamed loyalty and honor and fraternity would not allow him to finish such a task. He dropped to the ground, hot sand scalding at his knees, but he felt no pain. Dante's face played before him, and he realized that would be lost…though had he been able to forge her a Stone, she would have taken another face. The irony was not lost on him, but her lovely visage persisted.

Greeley slowly became aware of someone watching him, but being so lost in his indecision, cared little. Who would say anything about a soldier bemoaning a bloody battlefield? His military career meant little to him at this point after all. A demotion meant even less. A court martial would be easier; all he would have to do was stand there, numbed by indecision.

Turning his head, he saw through the haze of the eastern sands and balmy heat, someone approaching. Not the main city gates, but where he knelt.

A breath caught in his throat as the figure crystallized before him: Dante. Not as the aging crone she was now, but the radiant and lithe creature he once admired and longed for. She smiled easily at him as he basked in her radiance.

"Gabriel," she said, her voice gentle and lilting. "Why have you not done what I have asked of you? Do you not understand its importance?"

"Dante," he began, longing to take her into his arms. "I cannot betray men so easily; I thought I could, for you…but I…cannot," he finished weakly.

"But you must, if we are ever to be together," she said softly, her voice free of accusation.

"This cannot be real; you are old, just as I," he shouted, burying his face in his hands.

"I am as real as you," she offered, kneeling before him. Bringing a hand to his face, she caressed his chin, and he started at the warmth of her touch.

"You _are_ real," he breathed, his fingers lingering on the spot she had touched. "But how can this be?"

"It matters little…the powers of the Stone are infinite; that is all you need to know," she replied, rising to turn away. "We can be like we once were, my Gabriel…a life without regret," she called, disappearing into the horizon.

That was real, he thought to himself. He felt her touch, surely not a fabrication of his fractured mind. For all his daydreaming and wishful living, Greeley was at his core a realist. Any soldier worth his salt had to be, simply to survive. Still…

But as he fell back into the sand, distraught at the same crossroad, he felt the stirring of something he had thought long forgotten. It was a hunger, a sadness, a burning lust and yearning for anything and everything the world had to offer. Long moments passed as he waded in those lost emotions, now recovered, and he rose slowly, shakily to his feet.

"A life without regret," he echoed, closing the circle.

--

"Will…William," whispered Hohenheim in disbelief, tears coming to his eyes. "It…it cannot…can it be?"

Over twenty years had passed since Hohenheim had seen his son buried, and not a single detail from that peaceful face had been forgotten in the whirlwind of booze and time. The young man stood there as his father remembered: young and strong, hopeful. But something was off, something different: hate boiled in his son's eyes.

William screamed a shrill battle cry before lunging at his father in a rabid rage, foam flying from his mouth. His first punch shattered Hohenheim's shoulder, the bones clearly snapping and the pain blinding. Perhaps Dante had been right in her suggestion of removing the pain receptors…Hohenheim sidestepped the follow up, a punch strong enough to splinter the stone wall at his back. Sharp flying pebbles dug at his neck, but he cringed through it, preparing to evade the next attack. How had the boy grown so strong? Had hate fueled him to such a maniacal increase in power?

The boy had lost all sense of his faculties; he slashed and clawed at the recoiling Hohenheim in a blind fury that was more feral than furious. William had become akin to an animal, and Hohenheim finally realized then what it was that crouched atop him. It was the thing that he had created, the obscene tragedy that he thought he had left to die.

"You-are-not-William," he said, finding enough strength to push the screeching young man away. The homunculus bounced nimbly across the earth, landing in a crouched position as dust rose about him.

"Father knows best, father knows best," called the boy mockingly, his face morphing into the misshapen mass it had been born with. "Is this better, old man," he asked, crawling across the floor like a long limbed predator circling its prey. "I should have known that using the shape most familiar to you would not make you hesitate."

"No simple change of appearance makes you my son," panted Hohenheim. "God rest his soul…"

"God damned his soul; isn't that what you mean, father? Doomed his soul to purgatory from your own selfishness and guilt?"

"And is that why you hate me so, spawn from hell," asked Hohenheim, preparing himself for the next barrage. "For something that I had done to another?"

"Hate has made me strong, father. The few people in my life in a position to preach told me that hating was no way to live; but they are all dead, long turned to dust. And when I was near my own end, there was only my hatred to hold onto, keeping me alive when nothing else would. Are you not proud of what you have made me? A coward, a deceiver, a scoundrel and murderer…as if cut from the very same mold as you…!"

"No man can live without regret," replied Hohenheim wistfully. "And I am no exception. No matter," he said, shaking his head. "I am no more that man from my past than you are my son, though our appearances might convince others differently."

"Cutting me off so easily," shot back the creature, crouched atop a stony crag. "Disowning me again," he taunted. "I guess not so much has changed since you last saw me, then."

"Forgive me my son," breathed Hohenheim, closing the circle he had been furtively drawing with his good hand. The air before him began to shine, the glowing bits gathering into an orb before shooting forward into the homunculi's bitter face. His misshapen body burst into flame, but still the creature cackled his malevolent laugh, all the while trying to fan out the fire. The screaming shape found its way into the churning red waters, and all was silent.

--

The ceiling of the cavern rumbled, threatening its collapse. The crimson river, as if sensing the disturbance overhead, splashed from its carefully constructed banks, the unspoiled earth hissing at its caustic touch. Pebbles began to rain from the roof, sand and dust thousands of years old echoing the events above.

He knew then, exactly what had happened. He felt the shifting of massive energies, the cry of a thousand lost souls, and the pull of something beyond the physical world, tugging at his own soul. Like a siren's call it beckoned to him, calling him back to the man he was once, to a place he once coveted.

But that was long past, that man long buried. Knowing every moment threatened defeat, he dragged himself to wobbly feet and pressed his hands to one of the cavern's support columns. Energy began to emanate from the stone, but in fact came from him. Dante had probably suspected, so he had no reason to tell her, that the remnants of the flawed Stone he created years ago still lingered within him long after he had purified the valley. With it, he had jumped into his synthetic bodies without needing a Stone, but the energy faded with each transfer, making each switch less perfect.

Hohenheim used this energy now, perhaps the last of it, to bring down the city above, to sink it into the abyss of lost human memory and forgotten histories. Perhaps the three of them would find peace at last, he hoped, buried under the remnants of a city swallowed by the relentless tides of time.

--

But Hohenheim's hopes were premature, for the half-dead Dante stumbled freely amongst the ravaged plains overhead, gaining back strength with every step. She came upon Greeley, lying by a massive smoking crater, and she realized that Hohenheim had tried to wipe them out by swallowing the city in the earth. Or perhaps it was his half-hearted attempt at saving the nearby lands from the backlash of energy. Either way, she would see to it that history credited him responsibility for the disaster.

Greeley grinned painfully at her approach, and she could see that most of his body was blistered by jagged burns and torn skin. Flies buzzed around his sizzling flesh, but he had neither the energy nor mobility to swat them away.

"D-D-Dante," he stuttered, gasping for air. "H-Help me…"

"My precious Greeley," she said, kneeling by his side. Though her concern seemed genuine at first, she only had eyes for the sparkling crimson jewel in his withered hand.

"The Stone, Dante," he rushed hurriedly, trying to hand it to her, but failing. "Use it, puh-please…!"

She gently pried the Stone from his frozen grip, the flesh rough and senseless.

"I am sorry, Gabriel," she said, bowing her head. "But I cannot."

"Wuh-why not," he asked, sudden tears appearing at his eyes.

"There is no body for you to leap into," she explained. "It seems your transmutation circle was so massive that it liquidated every citizen within it…what body could I possibly put you into?"

"Y-your circle," he reminded her.

"Does it really matter whose circle it was at this point," she said, holding the Stone up to the light. Small flecks of red orbs danced within the crystal, bouncing and shimmering with boundless energy.

"Eastward…a village…"

She shook her head. "And an elderly woman like I am to drag you across all those miles? I am not the spry young chick I was once," she said. "Surely you of all people can appreciate that."

"B-But you _promised_," he whispered weakly. "D-Dante…"

"I did promise," she admitted. "But promises are really just words, when you think about it. And what is there to words," she asked with a carefree wave of her hand.

Dante rose gingerly on aching, sore joints, and turned to walk away, before stopping.

"I do appreciate you forging me the Stone, Greeley," she said, without looking back. "Perhaps we will meet again," she added, as if an afterthought brought about by some whimsical regret. And in another moment, she was gone.

His breaths came in spurts and wheezes, his lungs filling with a cold fluid that seemed to spread across the furthest reaches of his dying body. He could not move, even to simply turn his head and watch her vanish from sight. There was no malice in his heart, no curses he could hurl that could justify the feeling of being utterly betrayed. Only resignation. And so he spent his last moments of life quietly, wondering why Dante could never love him like he had her. 

* * *

_Notes: Ok, one chapter left. Hope you're all still tuning in to see how this one ends, tying into the tv series and all. One of the things that I had trouble making clear in this chapter is that it was William who convinces Greeley to complete the circle. Originally, I had been intending on using William to attempt to kill Greeley, then discover he lacked the ability to close the circle, but I decided that his devotion to Dante would make him a bit smarter than that. Seeing as how she would die without the Stone, he would want her to have one._

_Another story point that had to be flipped here for the sake of reading was the timeframe for William's appearance to save Dante and his appearance to convince Greeley to close the circle. William is absent during the first stages of Dante and Hohenheim's fight, but intervenes later, after speaking with Greeley. Greeley is hesitating over the circle still when William is finally able to resume his old form and face his father. Time wise it makes sense, but I wrote them out of order because it read better that way._


	20. Sin Immortal

Sin Immortal

It always started in the fingers first, the bristling feel of tingling senses spreading and coming and reaching and bending. The digits danced to her will, every movement magical, each muscle a miracle. Slowly that sensation like pinpricks on her nerves would extend to the arms, then the chest, and the ecstatic rush of complete control shooting to every inch of her new body.

Though her new body was probably not her ideal choice, it was serviceable, and splendid in its simplicity and symmetry. It worked far better than that dusty husk she left sprawled in the fields, its eyes still wide in shock, another soul locked into its dying form.

She had been tempted to assume the body of the family's patriarch, but without her trustful companion, he had to be removed before he posed a danger to her in her weakened state. Luckily for her, the appearances and trappings of an elderly woman presented her invaluable opportunities to take from them as she saw fit. She had almost hesitated when it came time to dispose of the children, but there was no doubt on her part when she finally unleashed the power of the Stone on the unsuspecting family.

Dante found little in the house that would prove useful; apparently they had lived well within their means with little beyond those meager limitations. A curious wonder filled her heart as she thumbed through their belongings, her one time yearning for such a simple life so far behind her that it seemed like a long forgotten childhood dream.

--

His eyes saw scarlet seeped hues like that of a rose, petals wilting as he broke the surface of the running river. The water was thinner than he had thought it would be, expecting a syrupy or soupy texture by the look of it.

So he had survived, thought Hohenheim grimly. And if he had, the others probably had as well. Struggling to his feet, he found himself dripping with the crimson water, which felt far heavier than regular water.

His mind wandered, taking him back to that mountain and dark cavern, and he found a small bit of comfort in that old memory. He had thought of his old friend often, the young boy who had sparked the fire of his soul, a fire he had long thought dead.

As he dragged himself towards a riverbank, he was surprised to find his many cuts and injuries healed. Had it been by the red waters? Had the acidic poison somehow repaired the damage done to his body? True, the toxic fumes no longer endangered him, but to have it soak into open wounds…

Oddly, he found the worry slipping away as he fell back into the red waters. It was almost peaceful there, miles underground, the only light from the gushing water. Visions began to dance about him, just beyond his senses, the lives and deaths of a lost people, beautiful and terrible and sad. Perhaps he would let himself simply drift off amongst the water, he thought dreamily, and found comfort in that. How easy it would be to float away, to let the current take him wherever it wished. No more thinking, no more responsibility. No more family…

--

The sun had just begun its daily routine of hiding amongst the western forests when she returned to the site. Light seeped through dark trees faintly, casting dim light across the marred landscape. The crater at her feet continued to spit smoke into the air, the vast blackness yawning further than her eyes could reach.

Her four-legged companion continued to yip doggedly at her heels, the ease and joy of youthfulness beaming from canine eyes. Annoyed, Dante contemplated tossing it into the dark hole, the pup's boundless energy like a gnat buzzing at her ears.

Gabriel remained in the same spot she had left him, a puzzled expression frozen on his face. So he had died, she nodded, and quite long ago at that, judging by the stiffness of his limbs. The puppy sniffed at his dead hand, and Dante was surprised to feel a pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach. She had brought the puppy along to transfer Greeley's soul into something manageable, as much for convenience as for her own amusement. Why, she might have even been what some would call 'affectionate' towards the pet…

Instead she gave into her first instinct, savagely punting the yelping puppy down into the black pit. It clawed futilely at the steep incline, loosing dirt and dust, barking helplessly as it sank further and further into the chasm. Watching it disappear into the darkness, Dante knelt numbly at the crater's mouth, her newfound face worn and sad.

--

She had no idea how long she sat there, in the dirt, staring into the deep crater. It reminded her of dreams and nightmares from lifetimes ago, the abyss staring back from the steep darkness, a blackness that spread far beyond the edge of what was once the city's outskirts.

There were no sounds from within the chasm, not even the puppy's incessant yelping. A sulfurous smell lingered in the air, an odor that reminded her of mass graves and decayed bodies. She thought of war, the savagery and beauty and horror of it all, and just beyond those images came the face of her one-time assistant, the man laying dead not more than ten feet from her.

He had been her friend, one of the few in her many, many years. He had trusted in her like no other; not even Hohenheim could claim that. He had been obedient, loyal, faithful, and unwavering; all the things she was not. Perhaps that was why she betrayed him so easily, with neither planning nor foresight. Had she resented him all this time? Had his admiration and devotion unnerved her so much that it turned her heart to ice? Or had she always been so?

Dante shook the doubts from her mind, as she always did, as she always would. Such was the price of power, the loss of one's conscience and soul. This was her last thought as she was swallowed by the settling darkness, but whether it came from the chasm before her or the depths of her own soul, she could not know.

--

He woke again in the water, this time by the sun warming his face. Clear, pristine water flowed about his ragged clothes, the current gentle yet unyielding. A songbird chirped somewhere distant, the grassy plains bending with the wind.

Hohenheim sat up abruptly, the stream splashing noisily about him. The world unfolded around him like the perfect painting, everything sunshine and summertime. The rags that passed for his clothing clung damply to his body, but it barely slowed him as he struggled to the riverbank.

A grassy plain, wide and long as his sight, lay before him, the land shimmering vibrantly like some massive emerald, and he wondered if he had perhaps died and gone to heaven. But remembering many of the decisions he had made over his lifetime, he deemed that a foolish thought and quickly dismissed it.

His bare feet sank into the soft grass, toes curling into the lush greenery. Soon the land beneath him changed, and he realized he stood upon a small dirt road. So the land wasn't untouched, unspoiled. There would be people nearby; his pace quickened.

--

It wasn't long later that he came upon the small wooden sign by the side of the road. It was only one word, but he stared at it dumbly, wondering if any of this was real, or the result of a fractured mind tainted by extended time adrift in the red waters.

The sign read 'Resembool'.

He had repeated the name in his head countless times, lying awake at night, the echo of its name just beyond his understanding. But seeing it there, carved neatly into the wood grain, it seemed somehow unreal to his persistently logical mind.

Over his shoulder, just beyond the low crest of the grassy plain, he could still hear the babbling river, its siren's call clear and tempting. To simply sink back in, and let the current take him, washing away his sins…no, he thought. The river had brought him here for a reason. Perhaps it was destiny. Or perhaps the world had grown so small that he could no longer run from a past not wholly his own.

And so he took that first, hesitant step into Resembool, fulfilling at least part of a promise he had made long, long ago.

--

Dirt settled about her as she slid to the bottom of the crater. Her torch gleamed dimly in the gloom, its soft glow warm and reassuring. High overhead peeked the noon sun, an apparent infinity away. Dante had never been one for darkness, but something called to her from this fallen city. Something she could not quite place, something familiar.

She was safe down here, she assured herself. No living thing could have survived her transmutation circle, nor the collapse of the city's foundations. Why, she must have been more than a dozen miles underground; further even, than her red river had extended.

Moving through the district that was once downtown, Dante was amazed to find nearly everything intact: laundry still clung limply to lines, dishes overturned but unbroken, spoiled food spilled every which way. Hohenheim had done at least that much properly; the fool had probably been hoping to save some lives, not understanding the scope of the situation.

Finding herself in the central square, Dante finally realized what it was that had been calling to her from the depths: opportunity. Remarkably, her new body began to quiver with excitement, the possibilities dizzying, endless. And so she did something she had not done in over half a century: she began to dance. Toes treaded lightly amidst the fallen stones to the faraway song in her heart, its haunting melody playing only for her.

--

Her lonely celebration continued into the night. She delighted in the sweat of her new body, relished the exhaustion brought about by her recreation of the cavern. It had taken her hours of work, but with the Stone in her grasp, nothing was beyond her, not even reshaping the earth to her will.

The cavern's new roof was solid stone, strong enough to support another full city atop its shoulders and far too thick for the curious to dig through. She knew the military higher ups would insist upon rebuilding, making her new base the ideal place of operations to plot and plan.

Her proudest achievement, however, was the spiral of stairs she drew from the walls of the cavern. Perfectly symmetrical, each step would have taken a skilled mason over a year to carve. But she had created a staircase tall enough to reach the world overhead in minutes, with but a thought of her mind and a wave of her hand.

It was a miracle. But as she began to dance again amidst her handiwork, another unexpected event took place, this one startling her. A song began to play, the tinny melody echoing off the rocky walls. Pausing, Dante struggled to locate the source of the music, but the dissonant symphony seemed to come from everywhere at once.

And as abruptly as the piece had started, it stopped. The monstrous cavern fell silent, until broken by the rhythmic clod of footsteps on stone, stalking towards her. A man she had never before seen appeared at the mouth of the city square, ghostly pale with long dark hair sprouting outwards from his head. The only clothing he wore was a black tunic over his chest and waist, snug enough to leave little to the imagination. But as he came into the light, she thought for a second that she had been too quick with her interpretation of his gender, for he moved with a fluid grace more associated with the fairer sex.

"You know my song," Dante finally said after a silence passed. She shifted awkwardly under the stranger's knowing, cold stare.

"I know more than that," returned the stranger, the throaty, androgynous voice matching its appearance.

"I fear you have me at a disadvantage then," said Dante. "For I do not even know_what_ you are, much less who you are…"

"I was your son," it replied.

"Wil-," she began, before he cut her off with a murderous glare.

"Don't say that name to me," he hissed. "Never again," he repeated with a slow, single shake of his head. "Understand?"

She nodded, amazed at how much he had changed. "I am surprised you knew me, then, my son."

"I am no longer your son, either, Dante," he said, looking around. "I was reborn of the red waters; just as you were reborn of the Stone Greeley forged for you, and just as this city was reborn of your vision."

"You…saw?"

"I did," he nodded, sitting atop a fallen statue, curiously fingering the bullet holes dug into the bust. "It was quite the sight, Dante. You have really outdone yourself with this underground city…"

"You too, seem quite satisfied with yourself," noted Dante, turning away. "Is…is he dead then," she asked, her lip quivering ever so slightly.

"I could not be certain," he shrugged. "I fell into the waters before him, and emerged stronger than before," he said, staring into his clenched fist. "I cannot say what it would do to a mere human."

"Your baptism was probably not unique," suggested Dante, her eyes clouded. "For he too is no longer human."

--

The first step had been the hardest; after that came the second, the third, and so on, until he stopped counting them and they just became footsteps. Hohenheim had no idea how many steps he had taken to arrive at the town's cemetery, tucked amidst low bending trees that cast soft, shifting shadows. His feet had taken him towards his next meeting with destiny, as if of their own accord.

The headstone belonged to Winston Rockbell, devoted father and doctor. The dates carved into the stone mattered little, but his fingers found them all the same, exploring the ridges and valleys of the headstone. They were just numbers, really, but in those years a life had been led, full of love and loss, of hate and heartache. Another life ruined by alchemy.

"I am sorry it has taken me this long," whispered Hohenheim, his head bowed. "I had made a promise to your son, long ago, that I would do right by your family, and this place. But…somewhere along the way, I let the world, my own life, interfere. I suppose that's what happens when you live forever," he chuckled bitterly. "Time becomes nothing more than a number, an abstract idea with no limitation, no consequence. Cursed to watch the ones we love the most die, become corrupted…turn against us, even. We witness the best of humanity, but remember only the worst of it…where did we go wrong, I ask myself, over and over, until the question becomes merely words without meaning. Where did _I_ go wrong? I try to think of the lessons my father taught me so long ago, but I can hardly remember him, much less his words; even his face is lost to my memory. I can remember nothing of who I was, where I came from. Only…_her_.

"I don't know what to do now. How can we leave the world a better place than we found it? Could I just leave, run and hide, end it all…would that make everyone safer? Would she be waiting for me…? I-I don't know what to do anymore," said Hohenheim, and he realized only then that he had been crying, his arms wrapped tightly around the headstone, clutching at it like a drowning man to a life preserver.

"Excuse me," said a gentle voice from behind him. Hohenheim spun, embarrassedly wiping the tears from his face as a man and a young girl stood before him, flowers in their hands.

"Are you okay, mister," asked the girl, her eyes wide with innocent wonder.

"I…I am fine," he nodded, the last of his tears dried. "But I appreciate your concern."

"We didn't mean to intrude," offered the man, glancing past Hohenheim. "Did you know my grandfather somehow…?"

"Ah, yes…from very long ago," replied Hohenheim, and the man regarded him curiously.

"Are you a Rockbell," asked the man, stepping forward with his hand extended.

"My…father was a close friend of Dr. Rockbells," replied Hohenheim as he shook the man's hand. "Your grandfather once saved my mother's life, before I was born."

"Ah, of course," smiled the man warmly. "I am Peter Rockbell, and this is my daughter," he added, nodding to the child at his side.

"I am…Hohenheim," he said, surprising himself with his honesty, for he had a lie already prepared.

"What a funny name," giggled the girl, to which her father shot her a stern glare. "My name is Pinako," she offered.

"A rather unusual name in itself," grinned Hohenheim, to which the girl reddened.

"I happen to like my name, mister Hohenheim so-and-so," she said, sticking out her tongue at him.

"Quite the fireball, isn't she," smiled Hohenheim.

"She gets it from her mother, I assure you," laughed Peter. "But I must apologize for our intrusion; surely you must be hungry from your travels…could I offer you lunch at my home?"

"Thank you, but no," bowed Hohenheim. "I must be on my way soon."

"You look like my grandfather," said Pinako suddenly. "Doesn't he, daddy?"

"That's very rude, Pinako," chided her father, but it was clear he had been thinking the same thing. "Please reconsider, sir, or little Pinako will be after me all afternoon."

"In that case, I would be grateful for your hospitality," nodded Hohenheim.

--

"I have some old clothes I would like to give you, Hohenheim," said Peter, ladling more of the steaming soup into his bowl. "I must insist; though the days are warm, the nights can be surprisingly harsh in this region."

"You made it pretty far without any bags," noted Pinako. "Where are you from?"

"Pinako," scolded her father. "You must not pry into a guest's personal life."

"You're the one treating him like a bum, daddy," she argued, to which her father reddened.

"Really, it is alright," said Hohenheim calmly, holding up his hand. "I am from the Central region of Amestris; my father was a minister of the church, and I lost my travel gear in the river a short ways back while trying to cross it. I chased it for many miles, but was too far behind it."

"How exciting," squealed the girl, clapping her hands. "You must tell us all about your travels and adventures!"

"Not much to tell, I'm afraid," said Hohenheim. "I already told the most exciting part."

"So where were you going when you stopped in Resembool," she asked, openly ignoring her father's frustrated looks.

"Looking for a plot of land, to build a house, maybe with a garden, and a nice library," replied Hohenheim. "Off to the east, perhaps."

"You don't want to venture there, friend," warned Peter gravely. "The eastern peoples have been in an uproar of late, with all the rumors of Amestris' collapse. Even the military is scrambling to adjust."

"Amestris' collapse?"

"Just a rumor," shrugged the man. "Word is, the city was destroyed overnight, with many unfortunate people within it. Even the military forces initially sent in to quell an uprising have failed to report back."

"Is there any word how that could have happened?"

"It's a rumor," repeated Peter, breaking bread for his daughter, who seemed to have little interest in her food. "But there is no doubt the eastern tribes have been riled up, invading and pillaging our borders, as usual."

"So there were no survivors in Amestris," whispered Hohenheim.

"Don't concern yourself with the ramblings of a bored people, my friend," smiled Peter. "Your dream of your ideal home is of more substance; please, tell us about your garden…does farming appeal to you?"

"Farming appeals to_nobody_, daddy," fumed Pinako, annoyed at the change in topic.

"Farming put this food on our table, honey," reminded her father.

"However long that will last," said the girl with a roll of her eyes.

Her father nodded grimly at their guest's curious glance. "What my delicate flower of a daughter is saying is true; our crops have suffered of late, the irrigation and waterways clogged with the refuse of military personnel and god knows what else."

"So the water has been the problem?"

"We think so," replied Peter. "But of course we can't prove a thing, and even the floundering military is still too powerful for a handful of farmers to stand up to…"

"Perhaps," nodded Hohenheim, his eyes wandering to the window. Beyond the glass rolled verdant hills of lush emerald, further than the eye could see. It was a sight to behold, a sight to be preserved.

"So how long will you be staying, mister Hohenheim," asked the girl, tapping her spoon anxiously against her bowl to get his attention.

"Perhaps longer than I first thought," answered the man, and the young girl beamed.

"There are few places better to start fresh than Resembool," she grinned.

--

"A fresh start," he repeated to himself, days later. "How easy that sounds, how easy to say…to just start over," he marveled. "I still have much to learn, don't I," he asked to the cloudless sky.

The river flowed at his feet as he lay in the grass, the water deceptively pure. Pinako was off collecting berries with her father, while Hohenheim had frustrated her with his lack of interest in the activity. She had been hanging on to his every word since their meeting, and Hohenheim knew the time would soon come that he would have to leave this sleepy little hamlet, and her life.

"It's for the better," he said, nodding to himself. But as he saw her darting playfully from bush to bush across the way, his heart filled with a sense of warmth that he had not known in decades. Perhaps it was his own feelings he wished to spare.

"Ho there, stranger!" yelled an unfamiliar voice from the waterway. Hohenheim turned to see a long metal boat, stacked with building supplies and young men. By the flag on their mast he knew them instantly to be of the military.

"Fine day to ride the river," called back Hohenheim. The men grinned, for the day was indeed beautiful, and there were fewer places in the world more satisfying than a river on such a day.

"What know you of that building up by the river's mouth," called the boat's captain.

Hohenheim shrugged, but Peter and Pinako strode over after hearing his question.

"What building is that, captain," asked Peter.

"Some fools took it upon themselves to build a watermill in the military's river," complained a crewmember.

"This river belongs to no one," said Pinako stubbornly. "It's just a river!"

"Silence, girl," spat the captain. "This waterway was requisitioned by the military for the shipment of building materials and men; we need to use this river everyday. How they built such a structure overnight is curious enough…but it is who did so that bothers me more. More than your childish mind can fathom."

"We have no qualms with the military, good sir," said Peter quietly. "Do not give our children reason to."

"Are you behind this then, farmer," drilled the captain. "Is this _your_ doing?"

"I am but a simple farmer," shrugged Peter. "I cannot make watermills appear overnight."

"So it would seem," noted the captain curiously. "My men and I shall have to return to headquarters and report this, all the same. Know that many questions will be asked of your people now. You had best get your stories straight, for I do not expect dumbfounded ignorance to appease my leaders."

"They are wise then," said Hohenheim, joining the conversation. "To recognize in others what they cannot in themselves."

"I do not recognize you," said the captain angrily. "You are not from this region, stranger. Best not to stir up trouble in a peaceful town like this."

"We sit and watch the clouds, picking berries," said Hohenheim with a wave of his hand. "We bear no ill will."

"So be it," said the captain carefully, studying Hohenheim from the corner of his eye. "We shall return, and that watermill will surely crumble."

After the boat disappeared over the horizon, the men looked knowingly at each other, their exchange wordless.

"A watermill, eh," said Peter, his hands in his pockets. "Wonder what good that'll do…"

"I have heard they cleanse waters," replied Hohenheim offhandedly. "As well as provide electricity and power for the area…"

"A shame the military will destroy it, then," said Peter, taking his daughter's hand. She quickly tucked her other hand into Hohenheim's, and she began to excitedly drag the men back towards the house.

"The ruins would clog the waterway, posing the same problem they face now," said Hohenheim with a grin. "Besides," he shrugged. "Now Resembool has become the heart of the region, and its development."

--

Crickets chirped under a starry night, the night breeze fluttering through the trees and lands. Pinako lay asleep inside, snoring loudly from her bed, as the two men of her life sat outside by a small fire.

"They'll come for you," said Peter finally. "The military, that is."

Hohenheim nodded. "They always do."

"You were right; they won't destroy the watermill," admitted Peter. "But doing something so dramatic was definitely going to garner their attention…but I suppose you already knew that, didn't you," he asked with a slight smile.

"I have never been one to keep a low profile," said Hohenheim. "Besides, I had a debt to repay…before departing."

"Don't worry about Pinako," said Peter. "She'll worry about you, but she'll get over it, just like she did with her mother…"

"She's a tough kid," said Hohenheim. "I wish I could have seen how she'd grow up…"

"You can always come home," said his friend gently, stirring the fire. "And that's what this place is to you now, Hohenheim. Please remember that."

"You have been kind to me, Peter, a true friend. I hope someday to repay you as well."

"The world is more than just equivalence," said his friend, looking up at the stars. "I am sure you have learned as much in your journeys. Besides…you have given me an escape from farming; for that, I am eternally grateful."

"Escape?"

"Now that the other farmers will be able to grow crops in abundance, I can actively pursue my dream."

"And what dream is that," asked Hohenheim, curious.

"I imagine you've seen my little workshop," said Peter. "With all those strange parts…?"

"Auto-mail," finished Hohenheim. "Your dream is to have auto-mail?"

Peter laughed. "No, nothing so self-indulgent; my limbs work fine," he said, tapping his arms to illustrate his point. "I would rather open my own shop, fixing it, improving it…there is no place to go for ordinary amputees, outside of joining the military. Maybe this way, I can help improve the lives of all those who have lost."

"That sounds like a grand dream," said Hohenheim. "I am sure you shall have it one day, my friend."

"Thanks to you, Hohenheim," he said. "You certainly live up to your name."

"That's what I'm afraid of," whispered Hohenheim, his eyes lost in the haze of the fire.

--

He would come to leave, as others before him and after him, pacing that lonely dirt road that wound away from the quiet hamlet of Resembool. Years would pass, skating by in a rush of seasons and changes, but so much remaining the same that when it came time to return, many years later, it would be as untainted as in his memory.

Like that watermill. It stood with a solemn pride at the river's mouth for many years, unshaken by the countless threats heaved at its stony walls. Though the military had been eager to raze it and reclaim the river, they were more intent on the resources it would bring in, like the larger amounts of food supplies the farmers in the area could create. Enough to feed armies.

A shop would someday open by that river, specializing in the design and repair of the world's newest mystery: auto-mail. It would struggle at first, with so few willing to participate in the fledgling science, but those veterans in the military would come to recognize the craftsmanship and quality of work done by the Rockbells, and the shop would begin to flourish, a carefully carved sign hanging over the always open door.

The military, too, would reopen their doors, the shiny exterior of Amestris' new walls glittering like some long-sought oasis. Their powers too would grow, unchecked by the cautious government overthrown and vanished so many years ago. Eventually came a time when the heads of the military decided that they could run the country better, and aided by knowledge found in the journals of two long-dead alchemists, they quickly seized control of and declared Amestris a military state.

It was shortly after that the military began to officially train alchemists with this research, the top students granted the honorary title of State Alchemist. They would soon become the most powerful and feared weapons the army would ever produce. Men, ordinary as any other, with neither guns nor weapons of steel, armed only with the knowledge to save or destroy the world.

--

Though he had never been given the official title, the man at her feet (or his remains, to be more accurate) had once been the first alchemist for the state. The position had garnered him respect and adulation, medals and honors. But it had not granted him the one thing he wanted most, which was the love of the woman looming over those smoking remains.

He would be the first of his kind again, at least the first forged by her own hand. It was the least she could do for him; and though Dante was not one to hurriedly repay debts, she was still at her heart an alchemist, who was always mindful of equivalence.

Her new assistant had begrudgingly climbed back to the surface to dig up his remains, years ago, when the city had first fallen, the dust barely settled. But it was only now that she had found the courage to see the task through to completion. The Stone had flashed, filling the cavern with warm light, but it had not shattered like she had expected. Instead it continued to glow brightly, its core like some lizard's placid eye.

The pile of bones and dust began to move, first pulsing like a ragged heart, then forming into a mess of congealed blood and flesh. Dante found herself biting her lower lip, stunned by the horrific synthesis unfolding before her. Had this been what it was like for Hohenheim?

The creature fell before her, its chest heaving like some dying animal. It stared up at her with one monstrous eye, narrowing as it took her in. Sensing its hunger, she tossed it a handful of clattering red stones, which the homunculus began to feed eagerly upon.

"There, there," she said, patting its damp head. "Isn't that better?"

--

"You sure it's a good idea to keep that thing around," he asked, poking his fingertip with a broken knife he had found amongst the rubble, seemingly delighting in the pain.

"You were once one of these 'things'," said Dante. He grunted, more intent on the trickle of dark blood snaking down his finger.

"I was never so unsightly," he said, crouching by the sleeping form. A smirk formed on his face, cool and cruel, as he flicked blood at it. "Still...it will be interesting to have someone else around...wonder what he'll be able to do…"

"He will be back on his feet in a few weeks," she said, annoyed. "Will you be able to control yourself?"

He shrugged. "Ask_him_ that...assuming he remembers anything, your reunion could be quite...interesting."

"He shall remember what I wish him to," said Dante. "That is how it works."

"What in the world are you talking about," he asked doubtfully. "Even you cannot be so conceited to actually believe that."

"It is no rule bound to I alone," she quietly explained. "I suspect the same took place in your…resurrection as well." His eyes curious, she continued.

"Have you ever wondered where our dreams come from? Our hopes and desires," she asked, to which he shrugged, his interest returning to his broken blade. "I know only that our core is shaped at our birth, that our creators' wishes become ours. Alchemy is no different. That explains your second birth, at the hands of H—"

She caught herself, envisioning the evil spark that came to his eye whenever his former father's name was mentioned.

"At the hands of your creator; he felt he was unworthy as a father. Perhaps it was this guilty conscience that became the seed of your hatred."

"Always looking for an excuse to forgive him, eh," he said. "No surprise, really."

"And you own dreams? Are they not shaped by this hatred, and nothing else?"

He opened his mouth to deny her, but stopped when he realized her claim was true.

"So," he began, eager to change the subject. "What seeds have you planted within our oozing little friend?"

"The most important seeds," replied Dante with a mischievous grin. "Seeds of love."

--

"You want him to love you," he asked doubtfully.

"Of course," she said. "What better traits to have in a servant than love and devotion?"

"You are sick, woman," he said, before chuckling. "Shaping his will before even giving him a name."

"He shall have a name," she whispered.

"Oh," he said, his curiosity finally piqued. "And how did you decide on that?"

"It was something H—he said to me once," she answered. "He told me that man was imperfect, bound to his sin, and sin could never die."

"Not so long as man lives," he added.

"Exactly," she nodded. "And so shall you all come to plague mankind for his follies and vanity, his greed and lust and selfishness, sin made human…or homunculus, as the case may be, " she added.

"And which sin am I to be then," he asked suddenly, surprising her. For since his rebirth, he had insisted on doing most things his own way, much to her chagrin.

"You shall be the first sin of man," said Dante. "The first of man knew only that he wanted what others possessed…and so shall you become Envy personified."

He nodded to himself, closing his eyes as he repeated the name. "I like it," he grinned. "And him?"

"I once told him that his desire for more would be his downfall," she said, smiling at the memory.

"Lust," offered Envy.

"No," said Dante with a single shake of her head. "He shall become…Greed."

"And we are to 'plague' mankind, Dante," asked Envy. "Killing as many people as we can?"

"Not exactly," she said, not seeming to notice that he had called her by name. "We shall drive them to kill each other, to create a cycle of death and destruction…"

"Why can't we just kill them all ourselves," moped Envy. "More fun for us, at least."

"Because then there would be no one to forge us more Philosopher Stones," she explained calmly. "Leave the killing to the military."

Seeing the disappointment on his sullen face, an almost motherly affection overcame her. "You'll still be able to kill people, Envy."

At her words, he beamed; not the dark smile of a mass murderer, however, but the joyful grin of an innocent child.

--

Her plan would take years to enact, but time would ultimately prove to be on her side. Fate had provided her the ideal mole, a creature with the ability to change his shape and the inability to feel any type of remorse.

"Report, Envy," said Dante briskly, basking in the sun of her veranda. City buildings peeked over the high trees in the distance.

"The fools are continuing their blind marches into the Eastern lands," replied her faithful scout. "Those assassinations were a masterful stroke, Dante, for the heads are seething with anger and hatred," he added with a grin. She could see the flicker in his eyes, the recalling of murders most foul.

"How long before their scouting parties reach the Ishbalan population center," she asked, turning towards the detailed map draped across the table. Years of stealthy research had gone into that map, each cross marked with the utmost care.

"A few weeks…perhaps months, even," answered Envy. "Our communications have had trouble keeping up with the expanding war zones."

"Don't overextend yourself," she warned. "We don't want another recoup after losing a massive offensive like the last time."

"Of course," nodded Envy humbly, but she could tell her warning would make no difference. Her servant, loyal as he was, had his own agenda when it came to waging violence on the helpless. "I have also been able to confirm that the military possesses both journals."

"Both," she noted with a slightly impressed nod. "I had been careful enough to ensure they gained a hold of mine, but I never would have thought Hohenheim sloppy enough to unintentionally do the same."

"Their newest batch of State Alchemists are supposedly quite promising as well," added Envy. "They have even begun a division devoted to researching the red water."

"Hmm, that could be a potential problem someday," murmured Dante. "We wouldn't want anyone else learning all that we know after all, mmm?"

"Probably not," he shrugged. "Any word from Greed on his end?"

"None," she sighed. "I had thought stirring up havoc and chaos would be a job suited to his personality, but it seems he has instead embraced his newfound independence, and much more rigorously at that."

"I don't like him," seethed Envy. "Nor do I trust him."

"Does it bother you so much that you cannot kill him so easily like the others," she asked playfully, her brow arching. "With his 'human shield' trick and what not?"

"He has never once reported his progress on this project, Dante," he angrily answered. "And I could kill him easily if you didn't hold me back," he added under his breath.

"We just might have to put that to the test one of these days," she said, staring into the wooded horizon, beyond the city rooftops. "For it is becoming far too inconvenient to keep that man alive."

--

Hot sand crunched under his sandals. Thick as the padded soles were, he could still feel the scorching heat from the ground reaching up towards him, trying its best to pull him down like so many others before him. Memories of another era and another man invaded his thoughts, but they were soon lost on the discovery of another battlefield, this one fresher than the last few.

Bodies still shivered in their death throes, the not-so-distant rumble of mortars and shells beyond the sandy dunes. This could be it, he thought: the perfect testing ground.

Tossing his bags aside, he quickly moved throughout the ravaged village, checking and inspecting every burnt hut, every overturned wagon. Splintered wood met his fingertips more than once, blood beginning to trickle down his fingers, but he paid no heed, hurried in his searching.

Once he was certain they were all beyond saving, he set to work. The first circle came easily, perfect. The second set, however, proved far more difficult, as he was treading in unfamiliar territory. No human being, in all the centuries of all the countries, had ever succeeded at what he was attempting. Despite that, however, the thought of failure had never crossed his mind. True, he had failed at previous attempts, but those trials had only tempered his resolve.

The last set of circles complete, he set the vials of red water he had gathered over his travels in the desert, the color brighter than the samples he had found to the west. He had harvested patiently, selecting from only the freshest pools. And in this region, there were many to pick from. Too many perhaps; the awful realization of the red waters source still haunting him.

Before he knew it, the circle was complete, the temperature around him suddenly rising. Bubbles began to form in the red water vials, the tubes trembling in anticipation. The hairs on his arm seemed to singe away, his clothes unraveling themselves as a torrent of wind that erupted from the ground tossed him back. Somewhere distant, just before he lost consciousness, he could have sworn he heard a door closing. But as it turned out, he was wrong.

It was the sound of a gate opening.

--

Light, blinding and pure, almost tangible, filled his senses. He tried in vain to shield his eyes from the sun before realizing that there was no sun.

As his mind adjusted to his surroundings, catching up to what his eyes perceived, it first occurred to him that he had somehow ended up in the mountains. For never in his life had he seen so much white around him, not even during his winters in the mountain range so many decades ago.

It was nothingness, just as he first suspected. He walked, each step soundless (what was he even walking on?), the world around him with neither smell nor climate. The only one of his senses that seemed to work was his sight, and even this fact gave him doubts. For how could he see nothingness? How could his eyes make out a horizon where there was none? But surely enough, his eyes could make out a dark speck in the vast distance. By all estimates, it must have appeared over a hundred miles away, but he knew that to be impossible.

The edges of the world began to shift again, and he felt a slight vacuum, the plane suddenly shrinking. That once-distant speck materialized instantly before him, and it was a massive door, carved of human suffering and pain that only a few people in the world would have understood. For it was an acute understanding of life that only those who had escaped death could relate to. Somewhere in the dark recess of his mind, he thought of Dante.

His hand wandered towards the closed gate, his hand hesitating over the sculpted figures. An open eye stared at him, its glare piercing and knowing. A mouth, frozen in a tragic grimace, seemed to whisper dark nothings to him. A face, beautiful and sad, seemed only a mask of a pain hidden in the darkest corner.

The crack between the doors began to widen, the doors heaving with a rusted effort. A thin sliver of gloom escaped the Gate, black slivers racing out at him like tentacles of smoke. He struggled, kicking at his bonds, finding them without substance as his feet passed through the ink black vapor.

It was only then that he resigned himself to his fate. He had, after all, lived many lifetimes, had loved and been loved by many people. There was more to that life than most others, he thought, until his hand crossed the threshold of the Gate.

Any resignation he had vanished when that cold, numbing feeling ran up his arm, when he saw the thousands of hungry eyes opening in the dark before him. He struggled again, this time as vainly as the last, but he drew comfort that he would not go quietly into the night. Some strange force began to pull at his hand, first the skin, then reaching to the muscles beneath it. And that force grew stronger, hungrier, tearing this skin and muscle from his bones, the pain returning in a flourish.

Soon his arm began to disintegrate, the blood evaporating the instant it met the air, and he knew he could resist no longer. Hohenheim closed his eyes and waited for the darkness to devour him.

--

He woke again, surrounded by the darkness, lost in the abyss. If the empty plane he had seen was limbo, then this cold, gloomy pit must have been hell. And if anyone belonged there, it was him.

After many minutes he sensed that his eyes would not adjust to the dark, that he was blind on this side of the Gate. If it were as large as the last plane, then he could search for a thousand lifetimes and not find the exit again. At least there he could see.

And then he felt it, something warm brush by his leg. The thick darkness parted slightly, and a small glowing orb passed around him, seeming to linger a moment by his face. It was the only warmth he had felt on this accursed plane, the only semblance of life or light.

"You do not belong here," it said suddenly, the voice familiar. Young, boyish.

"I do not," agreed Hohenheim. "But I have done great harm in my life; perhaps this is the world's way of balancing my wrongs."

"Sins cannot be repaid by simple suffering," explained the voice calmly. "One must make amends himself to those he has harmed."

"You are wise," said Hohenheim, his eyes probing. "And familiar…do I know you?"

"Once, from long ago…when I was just a boy," replied the voice, almost unsure.

"Petri…? Is that you, Petri, come to save me again?"

"Nay," said the voice, its light slowly growing in size. "There is no simple answer for what I am, just as there is no simple answer for whom Hohenheim of Light truly is."

"But…but I know you. I know I do," he insisted, seemingly unaware of the light spreading around him.

"So you do," said the voice cryptically. "But there are more important things for you to know now…know that this is not the last plane of the Gate. Know that another world exists beyond this, tied irrevocably to your own world, and your alchemy. And most importantly, know that…know that…"

"Know what," demanded Hohenheim, growing impatient. "Know what?"

"Know that your son loves you," replied the voice, its orb of light enveloping Hohenheim completely. Warmth spread through his body, soothing the numbed sections of his flesh, healing the damaged corners of his mind, and restoring the heart once thought lost.

"William," wept Hohenheim, as the light of his son's lost soul wrapped itself around him, protecting and guiding him home. The white light drew him in, gentle and comforting, and he remembered then, what it felt like to be loved.

THE END

* * *

_Notes: Sorry for the massive delay, I just couldn't bring myself to end this one the way I had originally planned. So many loose ends to tie together made this chapter a bit longer than I would have liked. Will have an epilogue ready together soon for that purpose, which will also tie into the anime timeline completely. Hope you enjoyed this one, have some ideas for the next one, which will hopefully be shorter. Really felt like I lost my characters along the way of such a long story, and the added cast members really took a toll on the focus. But honestly, I loved Greeley, he was my favorite character to write for, and his situations all felt very genuine when they came out. Such an honest fellow, really, but a damned scoundrel at the same time. _

_One angle I took out of this chapter was the next homunculi Dante had planned to create: Gluttony. It was going to be strongly hinted that Gilvir would be the basis for the first Gluttony, but I wasn't sure if he or Pride came next, so I just took it out. Felt kind of forced anyways. Anyways, look forward to the epilogue. _


	21. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

His life would change significantly after entering the Gate. As years passed, he would wander high and low, from sandy dunes to towering ridges, eventually finding his way back to Resembool as he had once before. The place remained much the same, that idyllic image still burned into his heart's memory. Seasons would come and pass, crops sprouting from the earth, leaves falling dead from the trees. Babies would come into the world with a shrill cry and the old would perish with barely a whisper. Time would continue, and he would remember how to live.

The return of love to his life came, as it so often did, in the form of a beautiful young woman. His soft spoken nature and kind eyes had won over her over, years earlier, but she had just been a child then, dismissing her feelings as a childish crush. Seeing him years later, herself now a woman, the longing and yearning resurfaced, and found in itself a passion the likes of which she had never felt before.

He, too, found more than just warmth in the arms of his compassionate new lover. He found comfort, a sense of belonging, and more than anything else, he found happiness. He had shared tears of joy when she told him of her pregnancy, and again soon later when she told him of a second child. He had shared the concerns of their eldest son when she would struggle from bed in the mornings, but unlike the boy, he knew there was something he could do about it.

--

"Son," he said one day, kneeling before his child. Though just a boy, he was still quite small for his age, and this worried his parents. "There is something I must do, for your mother, but…"

"But what, dad," asked the boy, his attention riveted by the mention of his mother. "What do you need to do?"

"I must…go away," replied his father. "I do not know for how long, or even if I will be able to return, but it might be the only chance your mother has."

"But…but the Rockbells have looked at her, and said nothing was wrong," insisted the boy, trembling.

"Sarah is a good doctor," smiled his father patiently. "Her husband too…but there are simply some things in this world beyond a doctor's understanding."

"Like what," asked his son. The boy was curious, intelligent, stubborn. He would make a fine alchemist someday, thought his father proudly. And the realization that he might not be around to see it turned the feeling bittersweet.

"If I could explain it, I could fix it," he replied, his eyes distant. "There is a…place, not so different from ours, where science has been their focus, in place of alchemy. Perhaps there I will find what we need to make your mother feel better."

"But mom needs you," insisted the boy, anger creeping into his voice. "We need you," he added, the last part barely a whisper.

"I know," he nodded, his face a stone wall void of emotion. "But you must be the man of the house now, Edward. People will think you just a child, but I know better. And your mother knows better. You and your brother are meant for great things."

"I don't—I don't understand," said his son, tears pooling at his eyes.

"You don't have to; at least, not yet," assured Hohenheim, his hand on Edward's shaking shoulder. "I won't leave until I am sure you are ready, ok?"

"Promise?"

"I promise," replied his father, his hand held up in a pledge of honor.

The boy nodded, wiping tears away with the back of his hand. "Ok, dad," he said gratefully. Childish hope clung to the security blanket granted by his father's mere presence, and now that it had been reinforced, he could rest easily that night. Dad would never leave them, thought Edward, falling asleep in the comforting embrace of his faith.

The next morning, he found his father gone. Boiling with anger, he barely noticed the crying of his baby brother from the next room, nor the ragged cough of his mother.

--

The house in the woods sank deeper and deeper into the forest. It was very much a deliberate move, trees sprouting at the forest's edges, springing to life and masking the deep darkness within its outer limits.

But it was still not deep enough to keep the determined out, like the young woman kneeling before her at the house's front stoop.

"I do not teach," repeated the elderly woman. A tawny cat lay sprawled across her lap, lost in the rhythm of the rocking chair.

"Please," begged the girl, her dark curls shaking. "I have come from so very far…at least give me a chance to show you what I can do!"

"If you can do anything, why would you need me," asked the crone, her anger rising. The cat, as if sensing this, rose and leapt from her lap a moment later.

"What I know is nothing compared to what you could teach me," said the girl humbly. "I am no aimless novice eager for an apprenticeship for name alone…I seek knowledge and only knowledge."

"Neither reputation nor title?"

The girl shook her head adamantly. And for the first time since her arrival, the old woman could see fully into the eyes of the young solicitor. They were strong eyes, capable and determined. Exotic, yet familiar.

"Fetch me some tea," ordered the woman. And though the girl knew nothing of the home, she dashed immediately into the house and began a desperate search for tea.

As pots and pan clanged inside, the old woman lay back in her chair, soaking in the air of the mild season. The pains had stopped, but she could still feel the crusted skin on her lower back. The rotted areas had bled through the night, but were now flaking. Soon it would be healed over, but the fact that nothing had triggered the breakout worried her.

Taking the mug of steaming tea from the girl, Dante seemed to reconsider.

"Perhaps I will take you…as an apprentice," she said patiently. "I may have initially underestimated your value to the cause, Izumi."

The girl beamed, and Dante's voracious eyes never strayed far from that healthy young body for the rest of the day.

--

A blazing sun rose on the vast rustic plain, the wordless hope and promise of a new day shimmering over the dozing world. Birds chirped their mysterious songs as the insects performed their bizarre mating rituals; trees shook gently in the eastern wind as the rest of the world settled into the day's activities.

A heap of bones lay in the dirt. Flesh had once been on those bones, life in that body. Its loss had prolonged the lives of others, and its decomposing remains would nourish the earth around it. Life would march on, endlessly, as it always had and always would.

Man's walls would grow. His buildings would be built taller, inching closer to the skies. His devices would become smaller, more efficient. He would continue to encroach on the fringes of nature, to someday control it; maybe to one day even master it.

And though mankind would master his wants and fears, his world and his pain, there were simply some things that he could never change.

-

-

-

* * *

Departing words: 

The second Resembool segment of this section was originally meant to be its own chapter. It would have introduced the growing love between Hohenheim and Tricia, following their courtship until the birth of their second son, when Hohenheim soon disappears, but I thought two courtships was already enough in this story. I had planned to keep Tricia's illness from the children's knowledge, but I like to think that it's an event clouded by Edward's anger at his father. So while he knew of the reasons, it was never enough of a justification for his father's leaving, especially with how it turned out. Another point was the inclusion of Izumi as Dante's apprentice. I wanted the only reason Dante took her in was to eventually take her body. But of course, viewers of the anime know that Izumi's body was badly damaged during the revival of her son.

One angle I just couldn't explain properly was Hohenheim's return to Resembool, when Pinako, Winry's grandmother, knew him from decades earlier and had quite a crush on him. I was going to use the detail that she was losing her vision (old lady, thick lenses), but there was just nowhere to say it naturally. Another detail was the destruction of the watermill; in the anime, we see the fallen building on the river's edges. I was going to use Hohenheim passing through the Gate for the catalyst. Like all his work and memory would be gone when he passed through. But I didn't like that explanation, so left it out.

The "Betrayal" chapter was originally conceived as the "climax" of this story, but as I was writing it, I thought to myself that real lifetimes really don't fit into neat little categories like they do in stories. We have highs and lows, certainly, and to extremes, but overall what we remember most, what we take with us, is the people we knew, the moments they gave us. In that regard, I wanted the ending of this story to stand on its own, not conclude any type of character arcs or plot lines. It is simply a moment we all wish we could have, to touch the ones we've lost.

We measure our lives in handfuls of happiness. But is it only those fond memories that assure us that we lived? I believe that for some people, the only way they know that they are truly alive, that they aren't dead on the inside, is through the pain and suffering of living. We forget that so quickly though, eager to move onto the next sunset and breathtaking view. This story was partly influenced by that notion.

Living for hundreds of years probably takes a toll on one's excitement meter, I imagine, and that's one thing I hope came through in this looong story. It must be tiring to live forever, to watch friends and family die, cursed with that same knowledge. Even when one's enemies have long been reduced to dust, what satisfaction can one take from that? Doesn't that just tell us how truly insignificant we all are, to live and die so easily? I think the only way a person could cope with such a difficult position is to shut away their feelings altogether, or to let themselves be ruled by them. Who is weaker for it, I wonder…Dante or Hohenheim? This story delves in the extremes; either the door is fully opened, or completely closed. I think people are all like that when they're younger, immature. The characters we'll see down the line will be more controlled, balanced. Passion will be replaced with compassion.

I am reminded of an episode from "Blade of the Immortal", one of my favorite media that delves into the burden of immortality, when thinking about this. An immortal warrior, who had slain thousands of his enemies for his lord, had outlived friend and foe alike. Cursed to live forever, he is eventually driven mad for power and by his insignificance.

But when all is said and done, our young heroine eventually asks: which is worse, to die without achieving your goals, or to live knowing that you won't ever achieve them? Hell of a question if you ask me. And the only answer her bodyguard Manji can give her? "No way to know, until you're dead."

So I suppose we'll all just have to take solace in that, friends. Take care, and thanks, as always, for reading.


End file.
